


Big Bad Boyfriend

by bewildered



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV)
Genre: Blood Kink, Chains, Character Death, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, From Sex to Love, Gem of Amarra, Mild Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-08
Updated: 2020-04-20
Packaged: 2021-02-26 11:14:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 22
Words: 145,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22608928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bewildered/pseuds/bewildered
Summary: Slayers don't get weepy when their One True Love rides off into the night for good. They get mad, and then they get even. Buffy's determined to kick off college by finding Mr. Normal, just like Angel wanted -- and then rubbing her new True Love in Angel's face. She's got the perfect normal guy all picked out, until an unexpected encounter at a party gives her a better idea. After all, who could make a worse Bad Boyfriend than Spike?Written for the Elysian Fields Big Bad Challenge 2019.Response to Tempestt's challenge "Bad Boyfriend.” Warnings: character death, smut.
Relationships: Spike/Buffy Summers
Comments: 61
Kudos: 473





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to all the good friends who poked at my outline and offered (and continue to offer) kind words of encouragement. Thanks to Sigyn, Ellie, and SzmattyCat for betareading!
> 
> Currently plotted to be ~20 chapters with an epilogue, and 12 chapters written. They will all end up here, but you can read ahead on EF if you wish.

“So you’re really going to LA?”

“Like anybody would want to stay here,” Cordelia shrugged nonchalantly as she rolled up another shirt for her suitcase. “Sunnydale is full of losers and wannabes. LA has winners and queen bees. Like me. You know, people who actually matter.”

Buffy rolled her eyes and wondered for the hundredth time just why she’d come to help Cordelia pack.  _ Temporary insanity,  _ she groused to herself, picking at a loose thread on the satin comforter.  _ You heard she was leaving now, and you got all nostalgic for high school, like when everyone was signing yearbooks, and you decided, hey! Why not go get bullied one last time by Queen C of Sunnydale High? One for the road. _

That hadn’t really been it, of course. Buffy had wanted to talk to Cordelia for weeks, really, ever since the whole thing with the Mayor. Ever since they’d left high school with a completely literal bang.

Ever since Angel had left. Twenty-three days, to be exact. Not that she was counting. 

Except that of course she was counting. 

Of course she was.

But anyhow, something Cordy had said when they’d been having their celebratory hey-we-averted-the-Ascension pizza had stuck in Buffy’s head, and she hadn’t been able to let it go, not even with her heart all broken, not to mention all the stupid paperwork that going to college seemed to require. 

They’d been talking about college, actually, and Willow had said something mock-jealous about Stanford, which was where Cordelia had planned on going to major in… pre-law? Or business. Something that would have her wearing pantsuits and shoes that cost more than Buffy’s entire yearly clothing budget, attending cocktail parties and probably taking up golf.

“Stanford?” Cordelia had sniffed. “Like anybody goes there any more. I’m going to LA, to become an actress.”

“Really?” Willow frowned. “I thought you hated the drama club. Remember, you--”

“What does the drama club have to do with acting?” Cordelia snapped. 

Willow had looked like she wanted to argue, but Xander, of all people, had shushed her. “Leave it,” he’d said in an odd, quiet voice, and then looked seriously at Cordelia. “I hope it works out the way you want.”

“Oh, I’ll have an Oscar in no time,” Cordelia breezed. “I mean, who wouldn’t cast this?” She’d stood, gesturing down at herself, and then grabbed her bag, heading for the door. “Anyhow, I’m out of here. You guys can all stay here in Sunnyhell with the vampires and the giant snakes and the bizarro lameness.” She’d paused in the open doorway and looked back. “I don’t belong here.”

That had been it. Something about the look in her eyes, the tone of her voice when she’d said that, had struck Buffy as… not right.  _ I don’t belong here. _

Here, in Sunnydale? Or here, celebrating with the Scoobies? Or here-- well, it had stuck, was all. And even if most of their shared time in high school had been spent sniping at each other and hating each other and being rivals, there had been moments when Cordelia had been a real friend. Like when Giles had been all stabbing her in the back, Buffy had asked Cordelia for a ride home. And Cordelia had said yes, no questions asked, even though she and Xander hadn’t been a thing any more. And when they’d needed her, really needed her, she’d pitched in -- not without complaints, of course, she’d complained the whole time, but she’d helped. She may have been the bitchiest Scooby, but she’d been a Scooby. Buffy couldn’t just let her leave without saying goodbye. 

Not without knowing what she’d meant with that weirdly-vulnerable parting jab.

Though looking at Cordelia as she surveyed her overstuffed closet, it was hard to believe there was any vulnerability hiding inside her at all. 

“Have you got an apartment all picked out?”

“Of course,” Cordelia said lightly, hands on her hips as she glared into her closet. “A small condo on the beach in Malibu. It’s not a private beach, but….”

“Wow!” Buffy flopped onto her side, propping herself up on her elbow. “Maybe I should stay with you next time I come visit my dad. He’s way up in Sherman Oaks, no beach in sight.”

“No!” Cordelia said quickly. “I mean, it’s really, really small. Like a postage stamp. A really expensive, glamorous postage stamp. You don’t want to sleep on my itsy-bitsy couch.”

Buffy blinked, nonplussed. “Huh. I thought you said you’d sent all that furniture from downstairs ahead with the moving van.” They’d had a leather sectional that was the size of Buffy’s whole living room, but now Cordelia’s front room was practically empty.

“Oh. Um, not that sofa. I took the, um… it was a different couch. A loveseat. From the family room. Really tiny. And hard, too.”

“Oh.”

Cordelia closed her still-full closet decisively. “Well. I’m all packed. Time to hit the road and--”

“You’re leaving your shoes?” Buffy sat up sharply. “Cordelia, what’s going on?”

“Oh, I don’t want those….” Cordelia sighed. “Oh, goddammit. Buffy, can you keep a secret?”

Buffy nodded slowly, watching as Cordelia’s face crumpled.

“I can’t take the shoes. They’re… they’re not mine any more.” She gestured bitterly around the room. “None of this is mine. Or none of it that has any resale value. My dad… well, he made some mistakes. Some big mistakes, on his taxes. The IRS says it’s… the F-word.”

Buffy’s mouth fell open. “Wait, the IRS said fu--”

“No! God!” Cordelia laughed sharply. “Fraud. Fraud is the F-word when you’re the IRS. So Daddy’s in a whole lot of trouble, Mom’s already filed for divorce and shacked up with some guy from the country club, and I…. Well, I don’t get any of the things I was supposed to get. No Ivy League college, no designer clothes, no Louboutins, no leather-upholstered furniture, no connections taking me to the top.” She patted her suitcase. “This is it.”

“Cordelia, I…. Wow.” Buffy stood and hurried around the bed to give Cordelia a hug. Which felt really weird. She hadn’t ever hugged Cordelia before, had she? Of course not. Why would she have? And why had she never noticed how tall Cordy was?

“Hey, no pity!” Cordelia grumbled, even as she hugged Buffy back. “I am totally going to turn this around.”

“I know you will,” Buffy said, feeling weirdly sniffly.

“Ugh.” Cordelia wriggled out of the hug. “Stop crying. You’re going to get snot on this sweater and I can’t afford the dry-cleaning.”

“Sorry.” Buffy sat down beside Cordelia on the bed. “Not just about the runny nose. I mean, I’m sorry I didn’t notice--”

“Well, you had some stuff on your mind. The mayor thing, that Faith chick, your vampire boyfriend….”

“Ex-boyfriend,” Buffy said quietly, feeling the sniffles rise up again. Like they had every one of the twenty-three nights he’d been gone. Not that she’d been counting.

“Wait, what?”

“Angel left. He’s, um, not coming back.”

“Ever? I thought you and Angel were, like, destined or something. I mean, he even rejected  _ me. _ For  _ you. _ ”

“Well, I guess destiny’s not all it’s cracked up to be,” Buffy said, trying for lightness. “He said… he said I should find someone normal.”

“Well, that’s stupid,” Cordelia said forcefully. “I mean, I’m the most normal person you know, and look what happened to me, just because I sometimes was in the same room as you. I got stabbed, and almost eaten, I dated Xander…. I’m lucky I’m still alive.”

“But he has a point,” Buffy earnestly replied. “I mean, I’m a vampire slayer. I shouldn’t be dating a vampire, even if he does have a soul.”

“Soul, schmole. Buffy, can I give you some advice?”

Buffy rolled her eyes. “I guess.”

“You need to stop being a doormat for guys. Angel just spent the last -- what, more than two years? -- leading you on, being all I’m-your-destiny, taking you to the Prom, and then he just bails? I bet you’ve been crying every night, huh?”

Buffy nodded, feeling tears welling up in her eyes again.

“Well, stop it. If he’s not willing to fight for you, then who needs him?”

_ I need him,  _ Buffy thought, but she nodded.

“Ugh. Seriously, Buffy. Like I told you, when it comes to dating, I’m the slayer. You can’t let some guy just play you like that.”

“He wasn’t playing me,” Buffy protested, stung. “If we’re together, if we, um… you know, then he’s going to lose his soul again. That’s why he left.”

“So he left because you guys couldn’t have sex.” Cordelia’s eyes narrowed. 

“No, because--” Buffy broke off. “It’s not like that.”

“It’s exactly like that. Buffy, if I had a dollar for every guy who left because I wouldn’t put out for their pimply behinds, I could afford to buy back all my shoes.” She frowned, calculating. “Well, most of my shoes.”

“He loves me,” Buffy insisted, feeling queasy.

“Not enough to figure out a way around that stupid curse. I mean, here you have Willow, who’s, like, super-witch, and you had all those books and stuff, but nobody ever figured out a way to fix that? Sounds fishy to me.”

Suddenly it sounded fishy to Buffy, too. “I never, um, never thought about that. But, um, maybe there isn’t a way?”

“How do you know? Has he even suggested someone look into it? Or doesn’t he even want to try? Believe me, Buffy, there are ways and ways to be together. If he didn’t even bother looking, that’s on him.”

“I’m sure he tried everything he could,” Buffy insisted, ignoring the sinking feeling in her stomach.

“All right.” Cordelia turned on the bed, taking both Buffy’s hands in hers. “Looks like nobody ever gave you The Talk. So I’m going to do you a solid here.”

“Mom gave me The Talk,” Buffy laughed nervously. That hadn’t exactly gone too well.

“Not that talk. Here’s what your mom didn’t teach you -- or if she did, it didn’t stick.” Cordelia squeezed her hands. “Buffy, no guy anywhere in the world is worth three weeks of tears when he dumps you.”

Buffy looked down at their joined hands, Cordelia’s pristine manicure -- had she done that herself? She must have, if she had no money -- and her own neatly-trimmed but sorta-ragged fingernails. “I love him.”

“So? He’s gone. You need to get over it and move on.”

“I’m trying.”

“Do or do not. There is no try.” Cordelia dropped Buffy’s hands with a gasp. “Oh, god, I just quoted one of Xander’s stupid movies. I have  _ got _ to get out of this town!”

“I’m moving on,” Buffy said stubbornly. “When college starts, I’m totally going to date.”

“And you’re going to make the same mistake all over again if you don’t listen,” Cordelia snapped, grabbing her hands again. “Buffy, guys are like… like shoes. Would you spend even a day walking around in a pair of shoes that didn’t fit? Even if you totally loved them, and they were, like, the most gorgeous shoes ever? And you’d found them on a killer sale?”

“No,” Buffy grudgingly admitted.

“And if you try on a pair of shoes that don’t fit, do you spend three weeks crying about them?”

“Depends on the shoes,” Buffy joked.

“No, you don’t,” Cordelia steamrollered on. “You put those shoes back on the shelf and you try on another pair. And then when you find a pair that do fit? Maybe you don’t even buy those. Maybe you keep trying, until you find just the perfect pair, and then even if you buy  _ those _ shoes, it’s not like you don’t have another three dozen pairs of shoes at home in your closet that fit you just as well. Well, unless your daddy is a total stupid fraud, but that’s beside the point.” She squeezed Buffy’s hands again. “Buffy, you can’t just go off to college and throw yourself into loving the first guy you think is a good fit. You have to try on a lot of… guys, see how they fit, and then make sure they’re not secretly total losers before you hand over your Visa.”

“I’m not sure that’s… me,” Buffy said slowly. 

Cordelia rolled her eyes. “I’m not saying you have to sleep with every big man on campus, Buffy. I’m just saying… don’t fall in love with some jerk who’s not right for you. And believe me, if they’re not willing to put in minimal effort, they’re not right for you.”

“I’m not going to fall in love.”

“Why not?” Cordy blinked, then sighed. “Oh. Because you still love Angel. Buffy, you’ve gotta wash that man right out of your hair. Believe me, he does not deserve your tears. If I were you, I’d be furious. I mean, here you devote your prime high school dating years to this one guy, and then he just leaves? And then he has the gall to tell you what sort of guy you should date? That’s some nerve.”

It did sound kind of infuriating when she put it like that. “I’m sure he’s just trying to help.”

“More like he’s trying to keep you on the hook. Tell me, did he give you some line about how he’s always going to love you? How you’re the only one for him, but he just can’t be with you?”

“No. Well, yes. I mean, sort of, but he was just trying to… trying to….” What the hell  _ had  _ he been trying to do, saying that? Buffy felt anger start to simmer.

“Well, that’s bullshit. That’s the sort of crap guys say when they want to keep you on the line while they’re off playing the field.”

“He’s not--” Buffy stopped short.  _ Was  _ Angel off playing the field? What was he going to do now? Find some other girl to be his destiny? 

“I bet he shows up every now and then, just to make sure you’re still his girl.”

“I doubt it. He said he wouldn’t ever come back.” And suddenly that did make her angry. He  _ had  _ said it was his destiny to help her. How was he going to do that now? Not that she needed the help, of course, but it was the principle of the thing.

“Sounds like he said a lot of things. You know what I would do?” Cordelia bounced on the bed a little in vicious excitement. “I would go out and find exactly what he said I should find. Find someone super normal, someone who’s everything he’s not. And then when he comes strolling on back into town, thinking I was still hung up on him? I’d totally rub the whole thing right in his face. That would totally piss him off.”

“You mean, get revenge?” 

“Well, not like mafia-revenge or anything. But you know what the best revenge is, when some jerk guy does you wrong? Being totally okay without them. Moving on and living the dream. That’s totally what you need to do. That’s what I always do.”

“I hadn’t thought of it that way.” Except it sounded… weirdly good. Not nice, but certainly a lot better than moping around like she had been. Like punching her grief in the face. She’d always been good at punching. And right now, she really wanted to punch something.

Preferably Angel.

Cordelia was still going, on a vengeful roll. “Seriously, Buffy. You lived for this guy for more than half your high school career. You gave him your virginity, gave him your prom, gave him all your good memories of the best part of your life. God, you even tried to kill Faith to save him! And he just leaves? I think you need to teach Angel a lesson.”

Buffy nodded sharply, anger boiling up inside. Cordelia was right. She’d given up everything for Angel, and he’d just walked away -- in the most dramatic way possible, even. Why was she even wasting her time crying? “I think… I think you’re right.”

“Of course I’m right,” Cordelia grinned.

Buffy squeezed Cordelia’s hands back, suddenly resolute. “Cordelia, when you said you didn’t belong… what did you mean?”

Cordela laughed faintly. “Well, you know. Um, I was only… only one of the group because I was dating Xander.”

“No, you….” Buffy trailed off. “Okay, maybe at first. But, I mean, you were one of us there at the end. Fighting the good fight.”

“Well, you know how it is with a divorce. Everything that the IRS doesn’t take gets divided up.” Cordelia shrugged casually. “Xander got you guys. You were his friends first, after all.”

“Well, that’s not how it’s going to work this time,” Buffy said stoutly. “You were a good friend to me, when you weren’t being a total bitch.”

“Really, Buffy? I could say the same thing about you.” Cordelia grinned. “Especially the bitch part.”

Buffy laughed. “So we’re still friends. You may be moving to LA, but I want us to stay in touch, okay? Xander can just deal. You have my phone number. Use it.”

“And you have my cell phone number. Don’t use it, because it’s going to get disconnected any day. Daddy didn’t pay last month. But I’ll let you know when I get a new one.”

“And I’m going to sleep on your tiny, hard couch when I come to LA, because it’s still going to be better than Dad’s place.”

“You mean my nonexistent couch? Turns out that had resale value, too.”

“The floor, then.”

“Okay. But only if there’s not an apocalypse going on. I am so done with apocalypses, and snake demons, and especially vampires.” Cordelia stood, briskly zipping up her suitcase. “And you totally have to let me know how your revenge-dating is going. I expect weekly reports.”

“You got it.” Buffy stood and gave Cordelia one more hug. It didn’t feel weird this time. “You know what? I think I’m going to miss you.”

“Of course you are,” Cordelia said regally. “I’m Queen C, after all. What would Sunnydale High have been without me?” She fumbled awkwardly with her suitcase. “I’m going to miss you, too. But don’t tell anybody. It would ruin my legend.”

“I won’t. Need some help with that suitcase?”

“No, I’ve got it.” And she did, wrestling it down the stairs and into the trunk of an unfamiliar car sporting Cordy’s vanity plate, which looked weirdly out of place on the rusted beater. 

“Nice car,” Buffy said, deadpan.

“Last of my wages,” Cordelia shrugged. “Should get me to LA, at least.”

“If not, you know who to call.”

“Triple-A. I still have a few months of that, I think.”

“Yeah.” Buffy stepped forward for a final hug. “Drive safe.”

“Are you kidding? I’m going to drive as fast as I can. Shake the dust of Sunnydale off my feet and move on.” Cordelia tossed her keys into the air and caught them. “But… I’ll call you.”

“I’ll be here.”

“And no more crying!” Cordelia whirled around and got into her car, quickly. The car sputtered and revved, and finally rumbled on down the road.

“Yeah,” Buffy said softly, watching the taillights fade into the distance. “No more crying.”

Not when she had revenge to plan.


	2. Chapter 2

Planning revenge would be easier if bloody Harmony would ever shut her bloody gob.

Spike had only himself to blame; he knew it, but it didn’t make it any easier. He’d come back to Sunnydale freshly single, eager to prove himself, and starved for physical contact. Harmony had been convenient, happy to baby him and fuck him and even speak incomprehensibly to him, just like Dru. It hadn’t taken long for him to suss out that Harmony’s vapid ramblings were a far cry from Drusilla’s cunning madness, that her baby-talk was infantilizing and rage-inducing, and that she was an appallingly vanilla fuck, for a vampire.

Not that he wasn’t taking her up on it, because even vanilla fucking was fucking, and celibacy fucking sucked, but he was starting to get a little bored. The bint didn’t even like _chains._

God, he needed to find the bloody Gem of Amara _now._

He’d come to think of it as his divorce settlement, the alimony he was due now that Dru had given him his congé -- though she’d forced it on him, in the end, one of her bloody visions. (There was another strike against bloody Harmony -- had any of her demented prattling ever pointed the way to a priceless artifact? Spike was fair certain not, not in the past and not in the future, and it was a damn good thing bloody Harmony had bloody gorgeous tits, or he’d have staked her long since.)

It had started out simply, Drusilla’s vision. She’d been dancing -- she was always dancing, his love -- and she’d frozen mid-step, her foot hovering in midair for several seconds before she’d whirled and spun and slashed at his face, long French-manicured talons digging four deep grooves across his cheek.

“What the bloody--?” he’d begun, but then she’d slapped him across the face, the impact making the claw-marks sting more.

“Liar!” she’d hissed.

“I didn’t say a bloody word!”

“Your heart is lying. It wants the sunshine,” she’d pouted, eyes huge and brilliant with tears.

“Not feeling particularly suicidal, love,” he’d retorted. “More homicidal, in fact.”

She’d looked at him with her huge, huge eyes, still as the corpse she was, until he’d felt uneasy. “There’s still hope,” she’d finally whispered in a voice like the moon. “Treasure long lost, treasure found, a slayer’s blood, like rubies in the sun.”

A flash of an image, the slayer’s face, except not in darkness, or bloody electric light. The slayer’s face in the sunlight, golden and dewy and-- “I’ll kill her for you.”

“Such a liar,” she’d whispered in an aside to the bloody voices in her head.

“I will!”

She’d shied away then, looking at him sidelong. “Do you want the treasure?”

“What treasure?”

“Do you want it?”

He’d sighed then, exasperated. “Depends on what it bloody well is, pet,” he’d groused. “Not exactly hunting for the Holy Grail, me. So what is it?”

“I’ll draw you a map,” she’d said then, sweetly, like he’d not just asked her a bloody question.

“What is it?” he’d repeated.

She’d just giggled in response, the minx. “The Holy Grail.” And then she’d danced away as if nothing had happened.

The next evening he’d awakened to pain, a line of fire being painted across his shoulder blade, and he’d rolled instinctively to face his assailant, only to meet Dru’s accusing eyes, her fingernails tipped in blood. His blood, he realized. She was agitated, fingers trembling and eyes wide and skittish, and he forced down his rage.

“What exactly are you doing, love?” he said, keeping his voice calm through a Herculean effort.

“Drawing you a map,” she muttered sullenly, like a child caught stealing sweets.

“On my back?”

She fanned her hand out in the air, inspecting her fingertips. “It was so lovely and white. A blank canvas. It needed red.” She focused on his face again, eyes narrow. “You need to know where you’re going.”

He glanced over his shoulder at the lines she’d cut before the pain had awakened him. “And just how am I supposed to read a map that’s on my bloody back, Dru?”

“Foolish boy,” she giggled. “Trying to read with your eyes.”

“That is the usual way,” he snapped, and she recoiled, looking hurt.

“Not usual, are we? Not you and I.” She reached up and stroked his cheek with one sharp fingernail.

That had melted him again -- he could never stay cross with her, not when she was trying to turn him up sweet. “Tell you what, love. I’ll send the boys out tonight on a smash and grab, have them knock over a bloody artist’s supply shop. We’ll get you some canvas, some pencils, loads of red paint….”

Her chin stuck out stubbornly. “Don’t want paint.”

“No paint, then. You can use whatever you like -- tea, shit, viscera.” He caressed her face then, his thumb brushing at her pouty lower lip. “Just not my blood and my back. Not when I’m not awake to enjoy it.”

He bent to kiss her but she turned her face away, sullen. “You don’t want me to have the treasure.”

“I’ll get you your bloody treasure, Dru. Draw your map, and I’ll find it for you.” He caught her wrists when she made for his back again. “Not on me.”

She bit her lip then, expression coy. “You always liked my little games before, sweet Spike.”

“Do you want to play?” Spike grinned.

She did.

Spike slept like the dead after, uninterrupted by pain -- though he dreamt of blood-drenched scenery with crucified corpses crying out like crows in the wasteland, and finally awakened to cries in reality. _Another of Dru’s toys,_ he’d sighed to himself, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, and stood naked, prepared to put the latest victim out of his misery -- not the victim’s misery, of course; Spike’s misery, because _sodding hell_ the unlucky bastard had an irritating whine -- and then he’d seen the wanker chained to the wall and stopped in his tracks.

There was his map, all right.

Dru must have drained the fellow right to the edge of death before she’d worked her cartography on his chest and belly, because the cuts were clear and unblurred by drips of blood. Thousands of them, precise and intricate and… familiar. He knew that map. There was the sharp curve and dip of the 101, the broader curve of the coastline, familiar parks and cemeteries delineated in oddly-accurate bruises and contusions. A confident X marked the spot where he supposed Dru’s Holy Grail was to be found -- near the university, if he recalled correctly. And she’d whimsically sunk a pearl-tipped hatpin just over the fellow’s heart, marking a residence he’d been to just twice, but could have found in his sleep. Oh, yes, he knew that map.

Of course it was fucking Sunnydale.

Of course it was.

The dying man was regarding him through pain-blurred eyes, his whimpering stilled. He licked his dry lips hopefully, like he’d been waiting for Spike to awaken. Which he probably had. Dru never had been one for subtlety.

“Leave you with a message, did she?” Spike said brusquely.

The man nodded. “She said…” He coughed, voice paper-thin. “She said you’d set me free.”

“Well spit it out then. Haven’t got all night.”

“She said…” His eyes closed wearily. “Amara.”

Spike’s stomach clenched. “Amara? The Gem of Amara?”

The man’s eyes opened, milky with confusion. “That was it. Amara. That’s all she said.” He pulled weakly at his chains. “Please. For the love of god, set me free.”

Spike rolled his eyes, reached out, and snapped the bastard’s neck.

He’d gone looking for Dru then, but she’d scarpered, not even leaving a bloody note. It took him three days to track her down, and when he’d done he wished he hadn’t, because seeing the love of a century merrily cavorting _in flagrante delicto _with a fungus demon was a sight he’d never erase from his memory. (Not even mentioning the sound -- the squelching, and the moaning, and Dru's voice over it all -- and the smell.) He’d tossed his things in the boot of his DeSoto, tossed hers out the window -- well, all right, he’d not gone that far, but he _had _maliciously rearranged her dollies in a way he knew she’d detest, and tossed a few _minions_ out the window -- and set off on the highway, driving north and west and northwest, through Panama and Costa Rica and bloody Mexico, until he’d seen the fucking _Welcome to Sunnydale_ sign -- reconstructed after his last visit -- and barrelled right on through it, imagining it was Dru and the fungus demon and the bloody slayer, set up like ninepins with a few others he felt the world could do without.

He’d put Angel right at the front of his imaginary ninepins, because in the end everything that had happened the last few years had been his fault, start to finish. Him and his fucking hero complex and his fucking soul and his fucking Dru, and…. It was all his fault.

Even Harmony was his fault, in the end. Spike had heard the story from her mouth a dozen times already, how they’d all rallied to fight the mayor, and how Buffy’s boyfriend had taken up the rear guard, except they’d been too late to save Harmony, she’d already been bitten and dragged off by a “loser” (her words) who’d always wanted to “make it with a cheerleader” (also her words) when he’d been alive, but even dead, Harmony had “actual standards” and wasn’t going to “put out” for “some vamp nerd,” sire or no. So while the slayer had been taking on the big bad mayor snake, her rear guard had been falling down on the job of protecting the students, and Harmony had paid the ultimate price.

And somehow, Spike had ended up with the result on his arm. So ultimately he’d been stuck with the bill, as usual. Bloody Angel.

“I always wanted to go to a frat party!” Harmony was gushing now, all smiles and cuddles since she’d gotten her bloody way. “I mean, high school guys were always so lame. They totally didn’t know how to appreciate a mature woman.”

Spike raised an eyebrow. “So we’re here for you to pick up fraternity boys?”

She paused for a moment, then laughed. “No, silly. Why would I want a college boy when I’ve got my very own Blondie Bear?” She hugged his arm to her breast. “I was just thinking, you know, college guys would taste better than high school guys. To eat. I wasn’t thinking about, you know, how they have sports cars and credit cards and know how to treat a girl.”

“Right.”

Harmony apparently took that as actual agreement despite the sardonic tone. "Thanks for taking me out, Spikey. Ooh, maybe we'll run into Willow and you can kill her for me."

"No," Spike said shortly, not wanting to explain yet again just what constituted "laying low" and how killing the slayer's loved ones was not it.

They slipped in the back door of the party, Spike coolly glaring around. What a dismal scene. Shite music, shite people, and what smelled like shite beer. He spared a nostalgic thought for CBGB and the rest of the New York punk scene he'd wallowed in when hunting his last slayer. Pity his latest hunt would have such a pathetic backdrop. He'd not miss a particle of Sunnydale culture when he left victorious.

"Ugh!" Harmony wrinkled her nose. "It smells like pee."

"That's the beer, love. You should drink some."

"Ew. Why?"

"Thought you wanted to be evil." She'd been playing at being the Big Bad when he'd rolled into town, trying to exert dominance over the local vamps, and failing utterly, despite there being a power vacuum, one of the local bigwigs having recently snuffed it.

"I am evil! I'm totally evil."

He shrugged. "Can't be evil if you can't hold your liquor."

She flounced off in a huff, heading towards the kegs, and Spike took the opportunity to prowl the edges of the party. He'd not been out hunting proper since he came to town, and it was refreshing to get to pick out a victim for once. No shortage here. Half the guests were already so pissed they'd barely notice dying.

This was just what he needed. A little fresh air, a little fresh blood… Harmony was always a little more adventurous when she was feeling spoiled, so he could look forward to a good hard fuck after. Maybe even at the party, if he found a likely candidate; he saw no reason to wait on Harmony's mood. As long as they managed not to run into the slayer, everything would be going Spike's way.

*

Everything was going Buffy's way.

She'd met Parker in the cafeteria the first week of classes, and she'd known at once he would be perfect for her revenge plans. He was cute and funny, with big eyes that really looked at her when she was talking, and she knew instantly that Angel would be jealous. Parker read fancy philosophy books, just like Angel. Parker liked to make sure Buffy got home safe, just like Angel. Parker hung on Buffy's every word, just like Angel. But unlike Angel, Parker was human. He didn't have to buy blood from the butcher, he could sit out in the sun on the quad and talk about stuff, and best of all, he wasn't going to go all rampagey after they had sex. He would still be just as awesome the morning after.

Yep, Parker was perfect for rubbing Buffy's awesome normal life in Angel's face.

The problem was… he was too perfect.

Using some random guy for revenge had seemed like a great idea when Cordelia suggested it, and over the rest of the summer they'd kept on talking about it, and it had kept on sounding great. Cordelia was a veritable font of wisdom regarding men, and Buffy now knew more about dating etiquette, bad-boyfriend red flags, and blow jobs than she would ever have imagined she'd need to know. (All theoretical, of course, but the information was bound to come in handy sometime, right?)

Cordy had made Buffy think about a whole lot of what had happened with Angel, and thinking had made Buffy realize that some of what had happened really hadn't been cool at all. Like how Angel had tried to commit suicide at Christmas and been saved by Buffy and the snow, which had seemed romantic at the time, especially when they walked home hand in hand, but now just seemed manipulative and selfish, especially after he'd left her in the end anyhow. Lots of Angel things didn't seem romantic in retrospect, actually -- not when Cordelia shone a light on them. (There had been an hour-long rant about claddagh rings and the cheapskates who gave them instead of actual diamonds.) And so Buffy was more determined than ever to show Angel that she'd moved on, she totally didn't need him, even one hundred and thirty-six days later.

Not that she was counting.

The problem was, Parker was really, really nice. Just super sweet, and earnest, and _nice_. He seemed completely into Buffy, like he really wanted to be serious, and it seemed… well, _mean_ to just use him for her revenge. She'd been going back and forth with herself for the past week trying to decide what to do. On the one hand, she wanted to show Angel how she was in a perfect relationship with someone perfect, and Parker fit the bill perfectly. But on the other hand, someone who was actually perfect, like Parker, deserved to have a real perfect relationship, not a fake perfect relationship with someone who was still hung up on their ex.

Cordelia had gotten Buffy to admit that, too. It was humiliating, but she had to agree with Cordy that it was no good lying to herself. She was still hung up on Angel, manipulative, selfish cheapskate that he was. And that was just not fair to Parker. So she'd pretty much decided she had to keep looking. She had to find someone who was just perfect enough to drive Angel mad with jealousy, but not so perfect she couldn't dump him with impunity after, because using someone for revenge was probably not a good foundation for a lasting relationship. In fact, she figured that would qualify as a bad-girlfriend red flag.

Still, she'd accepted Parker's invitation to what had turned out to be a very loud, kinda-smelly party, and now she was trying to figure out how to let him down gently without closing the door forever. Sure, she was currently occupied with revenge and getting over Angel, but eventually she was going to be done with both of those, and it would be nice if she could call Parker up then, pick up where they'd left off. But she couldn't just tell him, _oh, hey, I'll call you when I'm done getting revenge on my ex._

She was pretty sure that would be another red flag.

The other problem was, if she put Parker on the back burner, she'd still have to find another guy for her revenge. And where was she ever going to find someone else who would be sure to make Angel utterly insane? Someone he would literally gnash his teeth to see her with, someone who would make him regret ever leaving, someone like….

"Spike."

At first she thought she'd hallucinated him, a vision of the creature-most-likely-to-piss-Angel-off. Because yeah, Spike was definitely teeth-gnashing boyfriend material, if Buffy herself were insane, which she definitely was not, even if she might seem so to an outside observer. Angel would literally gnash his teeth if he saw her kissing Spike, so hard he'd need serious orthodontry; he'd spent something like a week lecturing Buffy on the dangers of giving Spike an invite to her house last time -- another thing Buffy had gotten retroactively pissed off about, seeing as they'd only needed a truce because Angel himself had gone all evil. But that didn't really matter, because Spike wasn't there; he was off chaining Drusilla up or something lame like that. It had to be some other guy with platinum blond hair, right?

"Did you say something?"

Buffy turned back to Parker with a carefully-brilliant smile. "Oh, nothing. Just thought I saw an ex of mine from high school."

"You dated a guy named Spike?" Parker looked adorably dubious; he was so nice, he probably hadn't ever run into anyone punk before.

"Oh, no. Not me." Buffy laughed nervously. "Pike. There was a guy named Pike. But, um, we moved away, and that was the end of my, uh, rebel-without-a-clue dating days."

Parker grinned charmingly. "You were a rebel?"

"Only a little," Buffy hedged. "I bought some earrings with skulls when I was thirteen. But it was just a phase."

"Sounds cute," Parker smiled, and Buffy started to melt, before steeling herself.

_Revenge_, she reminded herself. _Revenge first, dating cute guys after._

Buffy glanced sidelong at that blond head again. Pity it wasn't Spike. Now that she'd had a moment to think about it, Spike would actually be perfect for her plans. Angel rage -- check. Didn't care if he got hurt -- double check. Easily disposed of afterwards -- triple check. She could literally just stake him and suck him up in a Dustbuster after, and the world would be a better place, and she could give Parker a call, see what he was up to Saturday night.

And then not-Spike turned his head, laughing at what some co-ed was saying, and her blood ran cold. She knew that profile.

It was Spike.

It was actually Spike, here in Sunnydale.

What was he doing in Sunnydale? He'd promised not to come back, and okay, so he'd broken that promise in less than a year, but then he'd left again, and obviously that meant the promise was back on, he was never coming back, so why was he back? That _bastard_. She was going to kill him. She was _so_ going to kill him! She was going to stomp right over there, spin him around, say something super witty as she brandished her stake, and then she was going to….

...drive Angel completely insane.

She stared at Spike for a long moment, thinking and pondering and telling her little shoulder-angel to shut up, because shoulder-devil was running this little revenge show Buffy had committed to putting on, and Spike was…. Well, he was _perfect_.

"Excuse me," she said distantly to Parker. "Gotta see a guy about a guy."

She started to thread her way through the crowd.

*

Spike was just about to coax the pretty half-stoned chains-loving brunette he'd been cultivating off into the darkness for a bit of private fun -- she might not enjoy the endgame but Spike had always loved playing with his food -- when he felt a hard hand on his shoulder, and a second later he'd been shoved face-first into the wall. Hard enough to know just who'd done the shoving.

"Hey!" brunette what's-her-face protested woozily.

"Sorry," the slayer chirped behind him, revoltingly perky. "Has my brother been bothering you? He's not supposed to be out without a leash."

With a sullen mumble about how that was the whole idea, whozit stumbled off into the crowd, leaving Spike pinned up against the wall, the slayer's strong hands twisting his arm behind his back.

"Hello, Spike," she purred, lips close to his ear. "Fancy seeing you here, in Sunnydale. You know, the place you promised never to be ever again. Remember that?" She twisted his arm a little harder. "Good times."

"Sod off!" Spike snarled. "It's a free country. Can go where I like."

"You sure can!" Her voice was sweet as treacle. "It's just that if where you like to go is Sunnydale, that means I get to introduce you to Mr. Pointy."

"You wouldn't," Spike bluffed, knowing she damn well would. "In front of all these people?"

"Half these people are so stoned they wouldn't notice, and the other half would think it was some kind of performance art."

"Yeah, uh, so… where's the fun in that?"

"The fun is…." She shook him roughly. "Never mind that. I have a proposition for you, Spike."

"I have an answer for you. Sod off. Not playing your sodding goody-two-shoes slayer games."

"Not even to hurt Angel?"

Spike froze, glaring over his shoulder.

Buffy pressed closer. "You hate Angel, right? Hate him a lot?"

He bared his teeth. "Hate you, too, bitch."

"Who do you hate more?" Buffy pressed.

Spike didn't answer, just glaring at her impotently. Except not impotently, because between chains-whozis and the way Buffy's tits were pressed up against his back, Spike's cock had chosen now of all times to stand to attention.

"That's what I thought," Buffy went on. "I mean, you only knew me for, like, a year, but you've had two hundred years to hate Angel. So." She shook him again. "How much do you want to hurt Angel?"

"What, trouble in paradise?" Spike sneered, not bothering to correct her math. "Can't say I didn't warn you. Told you you'd never be friends."

She twisted harder. "I didn't ask you for your opinion. I asked you an actual question. How much do you want to hurt Angel?"

He laughed bitterly. "How long do you have to chat?"

"That's what I thought." Buffy glanced around the party, biting her lip. "We need to talk. What say we take this someplace a little more private?"

"Know a smashing motel up on Miracle Mile, rents by the hour," Spike leered.

"What? Oh, _ew_. As if! I was just thinking, like, outside."

Spike tried to shrug, but her grip was too tight. "Just saying. Nice and private. Could have your wicked way with me."

She shoved him against the wall again, harder. "Or I could just stake you right here."

"Or you could sod off. Wasn't bloody hurting anyone."

"I believe that." Buffy rolled her eyes. "In Bizarro-world."

"Believe it," Spike purred. "Was planning on making that girl you scared off feel bloody fabulous."

"And then killing her."

Spike tried shrugging again. "Details."

"Well, I've got news for you, Spike. The killing spree is over. You're in my town, and you're going to play by my rules."

"Ooh, big talk. You won't be talking so big when I--" Spike cut himself off before mentioning the Gem of Amara. She probably hadn't heard of it, but the Watcher almost certainly had.

"When you what? Do exactly what I say because otherwise it's Dustapalooza?"

God, she was a bitch. He hated her so fucking much. When he had the Gem of Amara, he was going to hunt her down in the sunlight, drain her dry, then do each of her friends the same way before he left to show Dru just who the Big Bad was.

But he didn't have the Gem. Not yet. And much as it galled him, she was right.

He did hate Angel more.

He laughed insolently and let her frog-march him out the door.

*

Harmony just could not believe it. Here she'd been trying to find the perfect guy for her and Spike to eat together, talking to everyone at the party just to make sure (well, everyone cute, because she had standards) and what was Spike doing? Hitting on the slayer!

Oh, sure, Buffy probably thought they were just fighting, but Harmony knew what Spike's face looked like when he was horny and stuff. He was totally turned on! By the slayer! He was doing that tongue thing that made Harmony weak in the knees, and giving Buffy those hot looks that he should be giving to Harmony, and letting the slayer just… rub herself all over him! How gross was that? He'd be lucky if Harmony ever let him touch her again!

Well, okay, she would, but she'd make him apologize first. Or, you know, eventually. Some time when he wouldn't get mad about it.

"Spike, you jerk!" she fumed, stomping her foot.

"Oh, is that guy's name Spike?"

Harmony turned to the cute guy who'd come up beside her. "Yeah. He's my boyfriend." Ooh. How had she missed this one? He just had the prettiest eyes! He'd make a great dinner. And she totally wasn't going to share with Spike, either.

"Oh." The cute guy turned his melty eyes on her, and she melted a little. "I thought Buffy really liked me, you know? But she just left with him. I guess girls really go for that bad-boy look, huh?"

Aww, he looked so sad! "Not all girls," she said sweetly, turning towards him. The party was so crowded, turning brought him right up against her chest. Which was the whole point. "Some of us like nice guys."

He smiled sheepishly. "So, are you a freshman? I don't think I've seen you around before. I know I would have remembered."

"Oh, yeah. I'm totally a college student," Harmony lied.

"What's your major?"

"My major?" Shoot! What was something she could pretend to be studying that would sound impressive. Not English, blah, or math, double blah and hard…. But no, maybe something hard would make her sound better? What was that class all the nerds took in high school? "Physics. My major is physics." His eyes lit up and she congratulated herself on her choice. Plus, maybe he'd notice that "physics" and "physical," like, totally rhymed or something and start thinking about getting physical. She pressed a little closer. "I'm really, really good at… physics."

"Wow! Smart and beautiful. What's your name?"

"Harmony." She smiled at the compliment. Nobody had ever called her smart before!

"I'm Parker. I'm sorry your boyfriend went off with, um--"

"That's okay," she sniffed. "Obviously he doesn't know a good thing when he's got it. And believe me, you really dodged a bullet. I went to high school with Buffy, and you're better off without her. Total loser."

He shrugged. "We weren't dating or anything. Just hanging out." He glanced over his shoulder. "So, can I get you a drink or something? They have beer, um, beer…."

"Beer would be great," Harmony gushed. "Maybe we could, you know, hang out?"

"Yeah," he said, his pretty eyes all warm and sweet and earnest, and Harmony decided then and there that she wasn't going to eat him. Not tonight at least. Tonight she was going to spend time with a nice guy who appreciated her, and later on she would rub Spike's face in it, tell him how much fun she'd had at the party without him, hanging out with a guy who wasn't a total jerk.

That would show Spike.


	3. Chapter 3

Once they'd made it out the door of the frat house, Spike twisted out of Buffy's grip, and she let him, because she could tell she had him on the hook, at least until she could explain her plan. They walked side by side, glaring at each other as they headed off… somewhere. Buffy wasn't really sure where, just that they had to get away from the noise and witnesses.

Actually, she wasn't even entirely sure what the plan was now. She'd gone straight from thinking how Spike would drive Angel crazy to propositioning him, without really thinking too much about the details. Possibly not the best of moves, she realized now, but… Spike was just so perfect for the job. She could make the plan fit the man, as it were. Right?

Just past the engineering building was one of the random installations of outdoor art that dotted campus like pretentious mushrooms, a concoction of concrete arches and rusted metal plates making a semi-private circle; with a meaningful glare at Spike, Buffy ducked under one of the arches and inside. He followed, shoving his hands in his duster pockets as he surveyed the sculpture.

"Should've taken me up on that motel, slayer," he said coolly. "Not exactly a comfortable place for a _tête-à-tête_."

"We're not here to be comfy, Spike." Buffy kept her voice brisk. "We're here to do business."

"Ah, yes. Hurting Angel." Spike leaned up against a concrete arch. "I gather you have some sort of grand scheme? Do tell."

"Well…." Buffy could feel her face turning red, but she could do this. "Okay, so Angel, um, left. He broke up with me and went to LA. He said I should find someone normal."

"Wanker," Spike said in a bored voice.

She soldiered on. "So anyhow, I was thinking that if he wanted me to find a normal guy so much, that's what I was going to do. Find a normal guy to date and then show Angel how happy I was without him."

Spike rolled his eyes. "What, give him yet another reason to brood? That's what he lives for, pet."

"Oh, shut up. It was symbolic, you know?"

"Right. So where do I fit into this incredibly boring and tepid plan?"

"You don't. Or you do, but the plan has changed. Or… well, I saw you at the party and it was like a lightbulb, you know? You make way better revenge than just some normal guy."

"And what, pray tell, am I to do? Hunt Angel down and torture him in your honor?" Spike started rummaging in his pockets, digging out a cigarette and silver Zippo.

"What? Ugh. No!"

"Help you commit hara-kiri?" Spike popped the cigarette in his mouth.

"No! You're supposed to be my boyfriend!"

Spike froze mid-light, the cigarette slipping from his slack lips. "Pardon?" He caught the cigarette just as it plummeted, staring at it blankly.

"Fake-boyfriend," Buffy amended. "I thought, you know, if Angel saw us being, um, coupley, he'd get really, really mad. Vengeance complete, we go our separate ways, mission accomplished."

He frowned and shoved the cigarette back between his lips. "You're mental," he mumbled around it as he lit up.

"No, it'll work," Buffy insisted.

He took a deep drag on the cigarette. "Define 'coupley.'"

"What?"

"Are we talking holding hands at the cinema? Snogging at a restaurant? Shagging in the alley back of the Bronze?"

"All of the above." Buffy frowned. "Wait. What's snogging?"

"Kissing."

"Okay, yeah, probably. What's shagging?"

He grinned lewdly. "Fucking."

Buffy managed not to haul off and slug him. "Ew! No, definitely not that. We are absolutely not going to have sex." She considered carefully. "But, um, somewhere in between, maybe? Like, I dunno, light PDA?"

"What's PDA?" He was smirking now, the jerk.

"Oh, right, you went to school back in medieval times. Public displays of affection. Punishable by a stern lecture and a note home if a teacher ever caught you at it." Not that she’d ever gotten caught, because she’d never dated a guy who could come to the high school in the daytime, and darned if she wasn’t PO’ed about that now, too.

"Right. And what's in it for me?"

Buffy folded her arms defiantly. "Hurting Angel. Light PDA. Also not being staked right this second."

"Sounds a rum deal, if you ask me."

Buffy tried not to be offended at how disinterested he seemed to be in making out with her, seeing as she totally didn't want to make out with him. "You'd rather fight to the death?"

"Not just this moment," he laughed. "Just thinking there's a flaw in your grand master plan."

"What?"

"This." Spike tossed his cigarette away and stalked over to Buffy, eyes intent, and as he got closer, hands reaching out, she instinctively squealed and lashed out, punching him square in the nose.

"Ow!" He glared at her, pinching the bridge of his nose. "See?"

"What? You attacked me!"

"Was going to bloody kiss you, you daft bint!"

"Well, how was I supposed to know that? You didn't say--"

"So I'm saying. Here I am. I'm going to kiss you now."

He set his hands to her cheeks and leaned in close, eyes glittering, and she tried, she really did, but all her senses were screaming at her, _danger danger danger_ and just as his lips were about to make contact, she ducked away instinctively.

Spike stepped back, face smug. "There. See? Can't even keep up the act for five seconds. You loathe me, I detest you. Angel's not entirely unobservant, despite that Neanderthal forehead of his. He'll see through this charade in an instant."

"We can practice," Buffy stubbornly insisted. "Get used to, um, kissing, and touching."

He raised his eyebrows meaningfully. "Practice?"

"Just business, Spike," Buffy said sharply.

He sighed. "You know, I do have plans. Might not have time for--"

"Cancel them. It's just going to be for a couple of weeks. Just until Angel finds out and comes down to see for himself.” She shrugged. “You can't do anything evil anyhow. I can't let you."

He laughed sharply. "Not helping your case, love."

"No, that's not actually part of the deal. It's just a requirement for you to stay in Sunnydale, period. If you're here and you're killing, I have to put you down. That's my job."

"And what am I supposed to eat in the meantime?"

"There's butchers in town. You can get fresh blood. Pig or cow, take your pick."

He sputtered for a bit, but when Buffy started to go for her stake, he sighed. "You're paying."

"Fine. I'm paying." She silently kissed goodbye the computer she’d planned on buying with the last of her financial aid. All in a good cause, she supposed.

He regarded her through narrowed eyes for a long moment. "And what about you? Am I supposed to just sit back and watch you merrily slay all my friends and colleagues?"

"You have friends?"

He set his jaw. "If I'm to stop killing, then you have to do the same."

"I can't just let vampires run amok."

"It's just a couple of weeks," he sing-songed.

"What if they're trying to end the world?" Buffy countered. "No more Manchester United. No more punk music."

He shrugged. "Well, if you don't want your revenge…."

"Fine!" Buffy shouted. "No killing for either of us until this is done. It won't take long, right? I mean, I'm sure the second they see us together one of my friends will get on the horn to Angel, try to save me from my own poor life choices." Privately, she vowed that if it came down to the world ending, she'd do what she had to, deal be damned… but that's what she always did, in the end.

"Good. I can't imagine I'll be able to endure very much of you."

"Likewise." Buffy folded her arms again. "And don't think I'm not going to enforce that, either. Willow's been working on some lie-detector crystals or something. I'll know if you start killing."

"And I'll know if you're slaying," he retorted. "Got plenty of connections."

"All right then. Do we have a deal?"

They glared at each other in silence, Buffy feeling suddenly nervous. What if he said no? Where was she ever going to find someone as perfect for her revenge plans as Spike?

Oh god, what if he said yes?

Finally, Spike shrugged. "Suppose I can put up with you for a few weeks, if the payoff is Angel thinking I stole his girl."

"I'm not his girl anymore," Buffy said sharply, pain stabbing through her chest.

"I'll wager that's not how he sees it. In his mind, you'll always be his. Angelus never could let anything go once he'd claimed it as his own."

That wasn't how it felt to Buffy. She felt like he'd not just let her go -- he'd thrown her away, with both hands. But if he thought he still had her after that… well, that was worse, wasn't it? "Too bad for him. I'm nobody's girl but my own."

Spike grinned then. "That's my girl!" At her eyeroll, he laughed. "Just practicing."

"Well, practice being less annoying. Is it a deal, then?" She held out her hand, all business.

He reached out, but instead of shaking her hand, he caught it up and brushed a kiss across her knuckles. "Deal," he murmured, his low voice sending her senses tingling. Not in a vampire way, either.

She snatched her hand away hastily. "Well, then," she laughed. "See you tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow," he promised silkily. "We can meet here at sundown, to practice." And then he ducked under the concrete arch and was gone.

_And that_, Buffy thought dizzily, _is how it feels to dance with the devil._

*

That had been an intriguing dance.

Spike ran for a bit, just to make sure the slayer didn’t change her mind about the instant staking, enjoying the cool breeze and the physical exertion and the sheer exuberance of having pulled one over on the slayer.

Oh, he intended to go along with their plan. That wasn’t even in question -- he’d be a fool to pass up the golden opportunity to irritate, fondle, and toy with the slayer with no risk of retaliation. (Well, perhaps a blow or two -- he intended to push the envelope of “light PDA” just as far as he could get away with, and she was a skittish thing, for all her power.) And having the slayer off-duty for a matter of weeks was nothing short of a gift. A gift of time, to be precise.

Time to locate and excavate the Gem of Amara.

And then-- well, then he could do what he liked, couldn’t he?

He slowed to a relaxed walk when he’d cleared the university quad, sauntering down the streets and whistling. And to think he’d been worried about the slayer mucking up his plans!

The lair was still and peaceful when he returned, most of the minions still out foraging for the night. He took advantage of Harmony’s absence to confer with Brian about the location of the crypt they were seeking -- brilliant fellow, Brian. He’d been a civil engineer before he was turned, which is to say turning evil hadn’t actually been all that much of a change, and he’d brought with him a treasure trove of tunnelling knowledge.

Too bad Spike was going to have to kill him later. Loose lips and all that.

They had a good week’s strategy lined up when Harmony finally put in an appearance, storming in like a pink hellhound.

“I can’t believe you just left me there!”

Spike gave Brian a significant look, setting the former-civil-engineer to folding up their maps. “You were having such a lovely time,” he breezed, ushering Harmony off towards his private quarters. “I didn’t want to interrupt your fun.”

“Fun! What do you think was fun about-- Okay, so I was having fun. That’s no excuse to ditch me for the slayer!” She folded her arms and stood at the foot of his bed, tapping her foot impatiently.

“Oh, uh, you saw the slayer?”

“Yeah, she was pushing you around and then you… you left with her!” She pouted. “Pushing you around is my job!”

“Well, I was just trying to protect you, wasn’t I?” Spike took Harmony’s shoulders in his hands. “I knew that after biting Willow, you’d be at the top of her list, right?”

“Well, yeah.” Harmony brightened. “So, did you tell the slayer you’re my boyfriend, and she and her lame-o friends need to stop being mean to me or you’ll eat them?”

“Not as such.”

“Oh.”

“But you’ll be happy to know that the slayer won’t be hunting us down for a tick. Slayer and me, we have an arrangement now.”

Harmony’s eyes narrowed. “What kind of an arrangement?”

Spike grinned. “I’m the slayer’s new lover. We--”

Harmony slapped him.

“Bloody hell! I wasn’t finished yet!”

“You’re supposed to be_ my_ boyfriend!”

“Right. First off, we’re bloody vampires. We don’t have bloody boyfriends and girlfriends. We fuck, we fight, we watch the bloody telly, but we don’t sodding _date._ Stop dressing things up like we’re in a bloody teenage drama on the WB. You and I? We fuck. That’s all we are.” He and Drusilla, they’d been so much more, of course, but calling Dru his “girlfriend” would be like calling the moon a mere rock. He shook Harmony a bit when she started to pout again. “And now we’re not even that any more.”

Harmony’s mouth fell open. “What? You’re dumping me?”

“Can’t dump what you don’t have,” Spike said bluntly, then sighed. “Look, pet, it’s not that you’re not a perfectly good tumble. It’s just that this is too important. There’s far too much at stake. And we’re not just fooling the slayer. We have to fool Angelus. He’ll be harder to--”

“So you’re fooling around with a guy, too?”

Spike gritted his teeth. “Not fooling around. Fooling. Tricking, gulling, bamboozling, pulling the wool over their eyes….”

The light finally dawned. “Ohhhh. So this is all part of a brilliant plan?”

“Exactly. See, the slayer’s gone and recruited me to pretend to be her new lover. Angelus, he’s her ex-honey, and she’s decided that she can make him jealous by flaunting me in front of him.” He snickered at the thought. “Thick as a post sometimes, our slayer. Playing the jealousy card on a two-hundred-year-old vampire.”

Harmony laughed uneasily. “Yeah. I guess trying to make a really old vampire jealous is… kind of lame.” She frowned. “Wait, Buffy’s ex-boyfriend is a vampire?”

“Long story, pet. Thing is, she’s promised not to hunt until this is over. That gives us all the time we need to find the Gem of Amara.”

“And then you kill her?”

“And then I kill her. Right after we show Angelus how perfect we are together.” He grinned, squeezing Harmony’s shoulders. “I can’t wait to see his bloody face!”

“So he_ is _going to be jealous? I thought you said--”

Spike shrugged. “Oh, he’ll be apoplectic. If his heart were beating, it would stop cold. That’s the best part. Sticking it to Angelus and killing the slayer, all in one night.”

Harmony glared at him. “So if this is all fake, why are you dumping me?”

Spike sniffed, testing the air showily. “Harm, I can tell that you drank three beers, kissed… four fraternity boys, one of whom had consumed an Altoid just prior, and ended up eating a fellow who’d had a few too many Jägermeister shots. Angelus is a vampire, and a bloody old, experienced one at that. We’re not just fooling the wanker’s eyes. Have to fool his nose and his bloody instincts, too.

Harmony’s eyes went wide. “I didn’t like any of those guys I kissed! I was just kissing them to see, um, how their blood would taste?”

Spike stroked her arms soothingly. “I’m not jealous, love. Just proving my point. Doesn’t matter how good a show the slayer and I put on. If she’s not feeling it -- if we’re not close to lovers in truth -- he’ll know it’s all a game. He’ll be able to smell it on her. And on me.” He frowned, thinking. “Which reminds me, I’ll have to get the slayer to set up a standing order at the butcher’s. Can’t have Angelus smelling human blood.” He grimaced at the thought of weeks of pig’s blood. All in an evil cause, he supposed.

“So it’s all fake?”

“False as the Queen Mother’s teeth. But I have to play this deep, layers deep, if it’s going to work.”

Harmony smiled then, coyly. “Wow. You’re just so smart, Spikey. Just like, um, Albert Einstein. Except not gross.” She started to back towards the bed, face inviting.

Spike took her by the elbows and steered her in the opposite direction. “And that, Harm, is why you have to find another bed to doss in. Can’t have Angelus smelling that I’m two-timing his one and only.” He grinned. “After all, I’m utterly devoted to one Buffy Summers.”

“What?!” Harmony shrieked as he ushered her to the doorway. “You’re kicking me out? I did all the decorating!”

“And a lovely job you did, too,” Spike said briskly.

Harmony dug in her heels. “That comforter is mine! I stole it myself!”

That was enough. Spike shoved her towards the doorway, stalked over to the bed, and ripped the comforter off, flinging it towards her. “Take it, then. Not as if I need it. We don’t bloody feel the cold!”

Harmony stamped her foot. “The pillows are mine, too!”

In the end Spike was left with nothing but sheets, a trunkful of chains, and a folding screen that was too much for Harmony to carry with her; she said with a sniff of pique that she’d come back for it later. Which was all right by him; he flung himself onto the disordered bed, stretching out to bask in his newfound freedom. He’d have to pick up some more candles on his next outing, possibly some new bedding -- it was true he didn’t need the warmth of a blanket, but he liked the feel of plush satin -- not to mention some spices for his new diet, but all in all, a very successful evening.

He could hardly wait for tomorrow.

*

Tomorrow was going to suck, big-time.

Buffy sat there in the middle of the concrete arches and rusty metal for a long time after Spike left, vaguely stunned at what she had just done, but eventually she noticed how hard the concrete was under her butt and wended her way back to the dorm, grateful not to hear any cries of distress. Had she really promised not to hunt for a few weeks?

She had. She really had. God, she was crazy. Giles would kill her if he found out.

Not that she’d actually been doing all that much patrolling, she reassured herself. With Sunday’s little tribe destroyed and the literal roommate from hell vanquished, campus had been quieter than the grave, other than Willow’s little run-in with Harmony. Which was disturbing, but not exactly a high priority when it came down to it. Right?

And besides, she was totally going to stake Spike when the whole thing was done. That was worth a few weeks of small-fry vamps. Buffy was doing the world a favor, taking Spike out of the killing fields. She totally was.

Willow was sitting at her desk studying when Buffy got back -- on a Saturday night, no less, go Willow! -- but when Buffy came in, she bounced to her feet, eyes alight.

“So, how’d it go with Parker? It happened, right?”

Oh god. Parker! She’d totally just left him at the party!

“Uh, not so good,” Buffy lied. “Nothing… nothing happened. I just don’t think it’s going to work out.”

“Oh.” Willow’s face fell and she sank back into her desk chair, dejected enough that Buffy was a breath away from swearing to go find Parker right that second and invite him to her bed, just so she could dish to her bestie. But no, she’d made a deal. Best to leave Parker out of it completely, or Willow would ask way too many questions.

For a while, Buffy had felt kind of weird, having Cordelia as one of her best friends and Willow, Vice-President and Treasurer of the We Hate Cordelia Club, as her other bestie, but in the end it had kind of worked itself out. Willow was the best friend she could be soft with, gush about romance and the sweet things in life. Meanwhile, Cordelia was the best friend she could be a bitch with, talk about vengeance and sex and… less-sweet things. In the end, it was really nice to have someone she could trust not to judge, someone who didn’t look up to Buffy as a hero, because… well, sometimes it was exhausting, always being good. Always being the Chosen One, the capital-s Slayer.

It was nice to have someone she could be human with.

Willow was still looking at her expectantly; Buffy shrugged, feigning indifference. “I’m sure I’ll find someone who’s right for me soon.”

“I know you will. I’m really looking forward to double dates, you know?”

“I know you are.” Buffy managed to restrain a snort at the idea of a double date with Spike, Willow, and Oz. Talk about awkward! Though… maybe Oz and Spike might get along? They both liked music. Plus, werewolf and vampire. That might be interesting…. Whoa, what the hell was she thinking? They were never, ever, ever going to double date, what with Spike being a killer she was totally going to dust after their agreement was up. Which was just, like, in a week or two. It was almost certainly best not to couples-bond.

“You know, our TA in Psychology is pretty cute.”

“Is he?” Buffy frowned, trying to picture him.

Willow rolled her eyes in frustration. “You remember Riley. You dropped a textbook on his head.”

“Oh. That guy? I’m not sure, um, trying to kill him is a healthy start to a relationship.” Willow was still looking way too eager to matchmake, so Buffy rushed on. “Plus, isn’t there something in the student handbook about teaching assistants and students not, um, fraternizing?” Cordelia had given Buffy a good talking-to about statutory rape -- not an issue any more, thank goodness, but boy could Buffy have used that lecture a couple years back! -- power dynamics, and all sorts of stuff Buffy hadn’t ever thought about before. Her mom had really been lying down on the job in some respects.

Willow clearly hadn’t thought about that stuff either. “I suppose so. But, you know, exception for cuteness?”

Buffy shrugged again. The last thing she needed was another boyfriend candidate right now. “I’ll keep looking. So.” She took a deep breath. “How’s the magic going?”

“Oh, really good! I saw a flyer for a Wicca group on campus, and I’m going to start attending their meetings. There’s one tomorrow night. I can’t wait to learn more spells!” Willow’s eyes were alight.

Buffy flopped down on her bed, affecting nonchalance. “You were talking about some lie-detector crystal thingie you were working on. How’d that turn out?”

“Really good. Though it’s not really a lie detector. More of, um, a promise-keeper.”

That sounded even better. “So, what, you promise the crystal something? And then what happens if you break the promise?”

Willow pulled out a drawer, rummaging. “Wait, let me show you.”

She pulled out a thumb-sized quartz crystal, passing her hand over it and mumbling something in Latin, then pricking her finger with a pin. A drop of blood fell onto the crystal’s surface, spreading out with a faint crimson glow, and Willow held the crystal close to her mouth.

“I swear and promise not to drink Buffy’s milk.”

Buffy rolled over, propping her head on her elbow. “I said you could drink my milk anytime, Wills.”

“Just watch.” Willow went over to the fridge, poured herself a half-glass of milk out of the carton labeled “Buffy,” and drank it down quickly. Then she held the crystal to her mouth again. “I swear to thee I have kept my promise,” she said innocently.

The crystal turned black.

Buffy sat up. “Wow. That’s… that’s really awesome!”

Willow passed her hand over the crystal again, mumbling, and the crystal turned milky-white again. “Thanks! It’s, um, limited, but I’m sure we’ll have uses for it.”

“Let me see.” Willow tossed the crystal to Buffy, and she inspected it. “What was that you said to it?”

“Oh, that was just a memory-wipe. Once it’s wiped, all you need is the blood and the words. _I swear and promise,_ and then you swear and promise, and then it’s on until the crystal gets wiped again.”

“That’s really cool.” Buffy tossed and caught the crystal. “Do you have another one?”

“I, uh, have a few.” Willow’s face turned a little red. “I kind of got carried away. Also, um, there were a couple that exploded. Just a little bit.”

Buffy frowned. That seemed weird, Willow being so gung-ho about promises being kept. Who did she think was going to break a promise to her? But… who was Buffy to argue when it was so convenient? “Can I have two?”

Willow smiled knowingly. “Of course you can. You can have as many as you want. I can always make more.” She pulled out another crystal and tossed it over.

“Thanks.” Buffy turned it over and over in her hands.

“Whatcha going to use them for?” Willow bounced in her seat again, clearly having her own ideas about promises Buffy might be making or taking.

“Just some stuff,” Buffy said quickly. “Nothing big. I just, um, want to test them out for myself.”

“Okay. Let me know how they work, okay?”

“Will do.” Buffy started to feign a yawn, then got caught up in a real one. “Whoa. Guess I’m tired.”

Willow looked sympathetic. “Well, you did hang out with Parker all week. Sorry he didn’t work out.”

“Yeah, me too.” Buffy quickly tucked the crystals into her purse, right by her stakes. “But, you know, there’s always tomorrow.”

“And the sun’ll come out?” Willow grinned. “Sorry. I have red hair, even if it’s not curly. _Annie _jokes are mandatory.”

“Yeah, it sure will,” Buffy said absently, gathering her toiletries. The sun would come out, sure enough. And then it would set, and she’d meet Spike. To _practice._

Oh god, tomorrow was going to _suck._

*

Spike could barely wait for sunset; the sky was still light, tinged with red, when he emerged from a sewer entrance right near the atrocious sculpture, ducking from shadow to shadow until it was dark enough for his skin to stop smoking; he finally darted into the concrete enclosure, patting briskly at his hair.

She was there waiting for him, arms folded, a stake in one hand while the other was clenched in a fist.

"Took you long enough," she sniped.

"Sun's barely down," he retorted. "Unless you wanted to practice kissing a big pile of dust."

"Believe me, I considered it." She sighed then, angrily. "But we made a deal. Plus, I am never going to find anyone else in the world as annoying as you."

"Ta," he growled, stung. Here he’d nearly killed her a good… almost a dozen times, and the worst she could say about him was _annoying_? He’d half a mind to kill her right now!

She sighed again, and shoved her stake into her purse. "Here," she muttered, holding out her hand.

Spike glared at the twin crystals nestled in her grip. She'd been clutching them so tightly they'd left red imprints in her palm. "What's this, then?"

"Told you. Lie detectors. This way we can tell we're keeping up our end of the deal. Take one."

Spike rolled his eyes and took the larger one. “So what do these do, exactly? Explode if we’re naughty?”

“No, they just turn black if we break the deal.”

“Ooh. Scary.”

“Shut up.” Buffy took a deep breath. “Okay. So, first we have to prick our fingers and get blood on the crystal. Then you have to say, ‘I swear and promise not to hurt or kill any humans, or drink any human blood.’”

“Is that what I’m promising? Seems like a bit more than what we’d agreed.” It was what he’d planned on doing of course, for the sake of the game, but no need to let her know that.

Buffy raised her eyebrows. “You want out? I’m ready to throw down.”

“No, but _you_ have to promise not to hurt, kill, or otherwise inconvenience any vampires or demons.”

“Except in case of apocalypse,” Buffy said firmly.

“Bloody hell. All right, except in the highly-unlikely case of apocalypse.”

“Okay then. You first.” Buffy proffered a rhinestone brooch. “Finger.”

Spike gave her the two-fingered salute as he poked his index finger, letting the blood fall onto the crystal.

“Say it right the first time,” Buffy hastened. “I don’t know how to reset these things.”

“Sod off.” He sighed and rattled off the slayer’s words. “I swear and promise not to hurt or kill any humans, or drink any human blood.” He felt the crystal vibrate in his hand. “This bugger better not explode.”

“Oh, it won’t. Willow said these were the non-splodey ones.” Buffy took the pin back and blooded her own crystal. “I swear and promise not to hurt, kill, or otherwise deliberately inconvenience any vampires or demons, except in case of apocalypse.”

He glared at her. “You added a word.”

“Oh, stifle it. I’m not going to feel bad if some demon decides to trip over my backpack. That’s on them.” Buffy snagged Spike’s crystal, tucking them both in her pocket.

“Well, what if a human trips and, uh, falls onto my fangs?”

Buffy raised her eyebrows challengingly.

“All right, it was worth a try.” On a whim, Spike reached out and caught up the Slayer’s hand, eyeing the blood welling up.

“Hey!”

“Not going to drink,” he grinned. “After all, I promised.” He lifted his own bleeding finger and rubbed it against hers, mingling the blood -- he tingled at the contact, right down to his toes -- and then reached out to paint a bloody stripe down Buffy’s cheek. “Now you do me.” He cocked an eyebrow suggestively.

Buffy rolled her eyes, but she wiped her own finger down Spike’s cheek. “Yay twinsies,” she grumbled.

Spike grinned in anticipation. “All right, then. Formalities concluded, job well done, shall we get started?” At her narrowed eyes, he quickly frowned. “Not that I want to practice kissing. It’s not natural, after all. Utterly repulsive. You and your bloody PDA.”

“You’re telling me. Totally gross.” Buffy sighed. “I’ve never actually been much for PDA. You know? I always preferred my displays of affection to be more private. Though… I guess private also starts with a P? That’s confusing. But, yeah, let’s get it over with.” She made a face.

Spike stepped closer, fury bubbling up yet again at her clear disgust. He hadn’t expected her to be eager, of course, but this had been her bloody idea, after all! She could at least treat him like a partner, like a fellow revenge-seeking compatriot. And so he decided.

He was going to make her eat her words.

He may have been utterly devoted to one woman for more than a century, but Spike had also been hunting women for more than a century, flirting and seducing them away into the darkness -- and when he’d started, it hadn’t been like today, with women owning their sexuality and trying to drag_ him_ off into the darkness. No, women of decades ago had been all fenced about by society, hadn’t they? Far harder to get them alone, that was certain, and yet Spike had managed, and it was largely because he had really learned how to kiss. Not just the way Drusilla liked, carnal and single-minded, but the way a skittish, resistant woman liked.

And so he set his hands on Buffy’s shoulders and pressed his forehead to hers, not even approaching her lips, just inhaling the sweet scent of her breath and waiting.

After a bit, she shifted uneasily. “Geez, Spike. What exactly are you practicing?”

“Just getting you used to me,” he said easily, brushing his nose against hers.

“Well, I’m used to you. Get on with it.”

Smiling inwardly, he brushed her lips lightly, just once.

Buffy shuddered. “God, this is gross,” she muttered.

“Your bloody idea,” he muttered back. “Bloody deal with it.”

“Fine,” she growled, and when he took another sip of a kiss, she sighed faintly, and he kissed her again, and then again, until she trembled the tiniest bit, then again but a little bit firmer, enough to really be called a kiss, keeping his lips soft and pliant, and there, she was swaying into it, so he applied more pressure, the tiniest flick of his tongue, and god, she tasted fantastic, like rich whiskey, he slipped his tongue between her plush lips and hers met it, tentative, and she inhaled sharply, and oh yes, he had her, he pulled her closer, until her breasts were brushing his chest, and god her mouth was hot, hot and wet and that whiskey taste was all her, rich and sweet, she tasted like power and he slid deeper, pulsing his tongue against hers and she pulsed right back, a little growl coming from the back of her throat and oh god, he needed more, he kissed her backwards until she was up against one of the concrete arches, sliding his hands around to her arse, and she was clutching at him, fingers tangled in the lapels of his duster and he wanted her, he wanted her so much, he hiked her leg up around his hip and ground into her and devoured her heat and her gasps and her passion and--

He shoved away, stumbling back a few steps. What the hell had just happened?

She was staring at him, wide-eyed and gasping, looking just as shell-shocked as he felt, and then he remembered what was supposed to be happening here, the script he was supposed to be following, and he drew himself up tall and deliberately scrubbed the back of his fist across his mouth, wiping the kiss away.

She glared at him, eyes narrowed, and then turned and spit on the ground.

“That was completely gross,” she sniffed.

“Absolutely disgusting,” he agreed, still trembling.

“How long do we have to keep this up for?”

“Less than a week, I sincerely hope.”

“Ugh. That long?”

“Unfortunately.”

They both fell silent, still staring at each other, chests heaving.

“Well,” Buffy said finally. “I think that’s enough practice for today.”

“Agreed,” Spike said shortly.

Buffy turned away, staring off vaguely at the concrete sculpture. “Same time tomorrow?”

He shrugged, feigning unconcern. “If you like.”

“Well, I don’t like, but… well, we did do the blood-crystal-thingies. May as well see it through. Right?” Her voice was subdued.

He bared his teeth. “I’m sure you’ll do a better job tomorrow.”

That riled her up. “Oh, _fuck_ you,” she bit out, eyes going wide just after, like she wasn’t used to swearing out loud.

“No, thank you,” Spike said coldly, though he could feel a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. So bloody _precious_, she was.

“That wasn’t an offer, jerk.”

“Good, ‘cause I’m not buying, bitch.”

“Asshole.”

Spike rolled his eyes.“You know, maybe I was wrong. Maybe I _do _hate you more than Angelus.”

“Oh, yeah? Well, I hate you more than that!”

“Good!”

Spike glared at Buffy for a long time, and he was obviously demented, because he wanted to kiss her again. He didn’t, because… because, but he wanted to. Desperately. Probably because he wanted to kill her so very, very badly? That had to be it.

Buffy finally sighed, eyes dropping. “See you tomorrow, okay? It’s only for a couple of weeks.”

“Yeah. See you tomorrow. Here?”

“Maybe the gazebo? This is kind of… a weird place to hang out.” Buffy laughed faintly. “We should probably look for a better place.”

“I know this motel….”

“Ew. No.” But she laughed, and he laughed, and they were back to cordially hating each other again, heading off in opposite directions, and Spike felt like he’d got his balance again, like the stars were back to their usual orbit.

Except… maybe not all the way back to normal.

What the bloody hell had just happened?


	4. Chapter 4

Willow was gone when Buffy returned to their room, probably still off at that Wicca club meeting, which was good because tonight was definitely not a gushy-soft-things-friend sort of night.

No, Buffy was in need of a fellow bitch.

She dialed Cordelia’s number carefully, absently noting that her fingers were still a little trembly, even after walking all the way across campus from where she’d… had her business meeting with Spike, which was all sorts of bothersome, but that was why she was calling in the first place, to get advice, because that had not gone according to plan. Not that she’d planned very plannily in the first place, apparently, because in all her vague talk about PDA, she hadn’t ever considered what it might be like to actually kiss someone who wasn’t Angel. Particularly not someone she detested with every fiber of her being.

It had been horrible.

It had been revolting.

It had been… neither horrible nor revolting, actually.

Something was obviously wrong with her.

The phone rang and rang, and Buffy was about to disconnect, since obviously Cordelia was out having a fantastic Los-Angeles-Sunday-night, but then the phone finally connected.

Cordelia didn’t bother with a greeting. “This can’t be good.”

Buffy frowned at the phone. “How do you know? Also, hi, Cordy, how are you?”

“Been worse,” Cordelia said briskly. “I know it’s not good because A, it’s Sunday night, B, it’s hardly past dinner time, and C, it’s you calling. Please tell me the world’s not ending tonight.”

“The world’s not ending tonight,” Buffy said automatically, though she didn’t actually feel too certain. “Also, I’m fine. Thanks for asking!”

“Well, that’s something. How are things going with that guy? What was his name, Porter?”

“Parker.” Buffy lay down on the bed, twisting the phone cord in her fingers. “And they’re not. I--” _\--dumped him? Never started dating him? Just walked away from him at a party last night and haven’t bothered to call him since? _“--I found someone else.”

Cordelia’s shrug was almost audible. “I thought he might not work out.”

“Why not?”

“Buffy, you used the word _nice _five times when you were describing him.”

“And _nice _is good.”

“_Nice _is good if it’s part of the package, not if it’s the only thing you can think of to say about a guy. First off, you need something else to fire things up. Second, any guy who’s five-times _nice_ probably isn’t that nice at all. Actual decent guys act like human beings. Men only act one-hundred-percent nice if they’re scumbags out for something.”

Buffy wasn’t going to argue with Cordy about a guy she’d walked away from, even though she was obviously wrong about Parker. “What if they act like scumbags?”

“Then they’re just scumbags.”

“Good to know.”

“This new guy have a name?”

Had Cordelia ever actually met Spike? Would she recall the name? Buffy couldn’t remember, but wasn’t taking any chances. “William.”

“And is William _nice_?”

Buffy laughed before she could stop herself. “Oh, no. Definitely not.”

“Ooh. Is he naughty?”

Buffy didn’t answer for a long time, just twisting and untwisting the phone cord until she realized she was starting to untwist its curliness. “I kissed him,” she finally said.

“And?”

“There is no _and. _I kissed him, full stop, end of tonight’s thrilling episode.”

Cordelia sighed impatiently. “_And_ how was the kiss?”

“Cordelia, the last person I kissed was Angel.”

“That does not answer my question.”

“I don’t know,” Buffy said quietly. “It was different.”

“Different, gross and revolting? Or different, toes curled?”

Buffy took a deep breath. “There may have been some slight toe-curling. But I didn’t like it. It felt wrong.”

It was Cordelia’s turn to be silent, for long enough that Buffy started to worry if they’d lost the connection. Dorm phones were iffy.

“Wrong how?” Cordelia finally asked, voice surprisingly gentle.

_Crime against nature wrong, _Buffy didn’t say. “It felt like I was cheating.”

“On Angel?”

“Yeah.”

“Buffy, Angel broke up with you. The whole point of you even looking at your William -- god, what a lame name, I hope he has at least one tattoo -- the whole point is that you are single and a free agent and you’re going to show Angel that you can be happy without him.”

“I know.” Buffy sighed. “But it’s the first time, you know? The first time that isn’t Angel.”

“Wait, ever?”

Buffy shrugged, even knowing Cordelia couldn’t see it. “I mean, not _ever _ever, but it might as well have been. The other ones were just… practice. Angel was real.”

“And he’s over.”

“Yeah. I know.”

“You deserve to have something else real, Buffy. It’s insane to think your romantic life began and ended with your high school boyfriend who walked away. Plus, how are you going to ever show up Angel if all you do is keep mooning?” Cordelia was silent for a long time. “Buffy, are you still trying to get revenge on Angel?”

“Yeah,” Buffy said stoutly, wishing she felt so confident. “Of course I am. I am moving on, I am going to be happy, I am going to show Angel Happy Moved-On Buffy, and he can eat his unbeating heart out.”

“Okay, just checking.”

“If I knew where he was it would be easier. He just left, you know? He left Giles a phone number, um, in case of apocalypse, but I’m not going to ask for it. Xander, too, I think.” Buffy laughed. “Actually, I think he gave everyone his phone number but me.”

Cordelia hummed noncommittally.

“But anyhow. Kissing Sp-- William felt weird.”

“But toe curling.”

Buffy nodded reluctantly. “It’s bad.”

“But good. You need to do it more.”

“That’s the plan,” Buffy laughed ruefully.

“Well, I expect a full report. And I do mean _full._” A tapping noise came over the line, like Cordelia was drumming her fingernails on the receiver. “No leaving out the good bits.”

Buffy felt her cheeks turning red. “I guess.”

“There is no guess. Do or do not, by which I mean _do_. And also, don’t ever let on to Xander that I’m still quoting his stupid movies.”

“We’re… we’re getting together tomorrow. Me and William.”

“Good.”

Buffy took a deep breath. “Cordelia, is it really okay?”

“What, for you to be dating?”

“To… to enjoy a kiss, even if it’s with someone I--” _hate_ “--I’m not in love with?”

“Buffy, a kiss is a kiss. It’s either a good kiss or a bad kiss. Sleek or slobbery. Hot or lukewarm. Worry about falling in love with him later.”

Buffy was _so _not going there. “Okay.”

"So, was it sleek, or slobbery?"

She touched her lips, remembering. "...Sleek."

"And was it hot, or lukewarm?"

His mouth had been cool, but she'd liked it, liked the way he'd warmed to match her as they went on. "Hot. Definitely hot."

"So it was a good kiss."

Buffy wanted to say _no_, but she knew Cordelia would see right through the lie. "It was good." She hadn't wanted it to stop while it was going on, until she'd come to her senses after.

"Well then. You go kiss your William, and if he makes your toes curl, maybe you need to do more than just kiss."

_Light PDA is on the menu_, Buffy thought, and oh. What _had_ she meant by that? Kissing, yeah, but what else? What had she gotten herself into?

Cordy apparently took her silence as resistance. "I'm serious, Buffy. Do you know how hard it is to find someone who can kiss? And if they can't kiss, believe me, they're not going to do any better with the rest of your body. Don’t let your William hang out on first base until the inning’s over. You need to let that man try to run _all _your bases. See if he has other talents."

Buffy was suddenly sure Spike did, but even talking about it was making her feel all squirmy and unsettled. Time to get off that subject. “All right. So, how’s Cordelia doing?”

Cordelia laughed sharply. “Well, I… I got a job.”

“Acting?”

“No, it’s… it’s office work. Invoices and stuff. Bo-ring.”

Buffy laughed. “Boring sounds pretty awesome right now. Some nights I’d definitely rather be filing and typing than dealing with vampires.”

“Yeah, uh, no vampires,” Cordelia said quickly. “A totally, completely normal job working for a detective agency.”

“Good thing you left Sunnydale.”

“Yeah. Good thing.”

“Do you like the people you work with?”

“Sort of? I mean, there’s only two. The one guy, he’s kind of a perv, but I guess he’s mostly okay. The boss is… nice.”

“Five-times nice?”

“Definitely not.”

“Well, I guess you can keep him, then.” Buffy rolled over on her stomach, wincing when something hard dug into her hipbone. She wriggled around and stuffed her hand into her pocket, pulling out the two crystals, holding them thoughtfully up to the light. Crap, she should have given Spike the one with her promise. That would have been the fair thing to do. She’d just been so… _ugh_ about the kissage that she’d forgotten. And then… well, they’d kissed, and she’d forgotten more. At least they were different shapes so she could tell them apart. She’d give him her crystal tomorrow when they…. She drifted off for a moment, imagining meeting Spike at the gazebo, before realizing she’d left Cordelia hanging. She couldn’t even remember what they’d been talking about. All she could think about was kissing and toes and curling and kissing and…. “So, anyone curling your toes?”

“Not lately. But, you know, we can’t all be co-eds gone wild. Some of us have to work for a living.”

Buffy could argue a whole bunch of points there, but it seemed rude. Cordelia really had lived in a world of suck since her dad’s financial SNAFUs. “Well, some of us have Psych quizzes tomorrow.”

“Ooh, the horror!”

“Do you have to be in at eight?”

“No, the, uh, the hours are nonstandard. Mostly late nights.” Cordelia’s breath huffed faintly. “Buffy, are you still hung up on Angel?”

“Maybe-- yeah. I’m working on it.”

“Okay. Um, keep working. You deserve… you deserve better.”

“Thanks.” Buffy twisted the not-very-twisty-anymore cord again.

“I, um, I’ve got to go. Work.”

“Yeah. Okay. Thanks for listening, Cordy.”

“My pleasure. Oh, and call me when William steals second base.”

_Not going to happen, _Buffy thought desperately, though she immediately pictured herself topless in front of Spike. She shuddered -- in disgust, she tried to tell herself. Total disgust. “I will.”

The phone clicked, and Buffy hung up the receiver, flopping back onto the bed and running her fingers thoughtfully over her lips. _It’s okay, _she thought carefully._ It’s okay that kissing Spike was sleek and hot and good. Cordy said it was okay. _

_After all, it was only a kiss._

*

Harmony spritzed a whole bunch of minty breath-freshening spray in her mouth on her way into the lair. It wasn’t like she’d been cheating on Spike, of course. It had only been a kiss. One kiss. One really long kiss. Plus, Spike had already dumped her, so it wasn’t actually cheating. Especially since she totally planned on eating Parker, eventually. But it was nice, having someone who treated her like she was as beautiful and fantastic as she knew she was.

She just wanted Spike to think she was waiting for him.

He’d come back to her once he killed the slayer. He’d said so. Or, not said it, but hinted it, and that was good enough for Harmony. Unlike some people, she was actually loyal and devoted to her sweetie.

The tunnel was bigger now; Brian was looking at his maps and directing minions, and totally ignored Harmony when she came in. Which is what he’d always done, actually, but now it was because she _wasn’t _Spike’s girlfriend instead of because she _was _Spike’s girlfriend, and so it hurt.

“Where’s my Blondie Bear?” she asked, holding her chin high.

“Big Bad’s taking a breather,” Brian said absently. “In his quarters.”

“Well. Don’t come bother us. We’ll want to be_ alone._”

Brian rolled his eyes, which was, like, super rude, but Harmony was totally the bigger person and just walked off, making sure she swung her butt so everyone would look at it.

Spike was lying on his bed staring at the ceiling, which was weird, but convenient. Harmony posed in his doorway, eyeing him. She could see from the way his jeans fit that he was turned on, too, which was even more convenient. He was probably thinking about her, since he hadn’t gotten laid last night. He’d gotten some new sheets, red satin, and a lot more candles, but the room didn’t look anywhere near as nice as Harmony had made it. He had to have noticed.

“Miss me, baby?” she purred, sticking her chest out.

“What?” He startled, leaping to his feet, then sat back down grouchily. “Oh. It’s you.”

Harmony strutted closer to the bed, swinging her hips. “I just came by to check on you. Make sure you were… feeling all right.”

“Well, bugger off,” Spike said shortly.

Harmony froze in her tracks then, not because of what he said, but because of what she smelled on his breath.

“You kissed her!” she yelped, surprised.

Spike rolled his eyes. “Well, yeah. Told you I was her new lover.”

“Pretend lover!”

“Real enough for me.” He bared his teeth in a nasty grin. “Now sod off.”

Harmony stamped her foot. “You’re so mean!”

“Am I?” He shrugged.

“I don’t know why I put up with--” Harmony broke off, remembering that she was supposed to be all sweet and make him think about what he’d thrown away. “You know, I don’t need you.”

“Lovely.”

“I found a new boyfriend,” she said proudly. “Someone who treats me like a queen.”

“Ah. Gave him a blowie, did you?” Spike cracked his neck, looking all bored and stuff. So rude!

“No! He’s a… a gentleman!”

“You should give him a blowie. Put your best foot forward and all that.”

Harmony felt like crying. This wasn’t going the way she’d planned at all. “You are so mean!”

He shrugged. “Vampire.”

“I bet the slayer doesn’t even know how to give a blow job!”

“Do you really think so?” Spike smiled evilly. “Well then, perhaps I can give her lessons. She can practice on me until she’s got it just right. It’ll be a sacrifice, but I imagine I’ll endure it.”

“You’ll miss me!” Harmony stomped her feet again. “You’re going to come crawling back to me any day now, and I’m totally not going to take you back!”

“Pity.” Spike lay back down on the bed. “Bugger off.” He stared back up at the ceiling, brow furrowed in thought.

“Fine! I’m going to go… go bugger my new boyfriend!” Harmony didn’t actually know what _sod_ or _bugger_ meant, but she was pretty sure they meant sex. Spike would totally be jealous if he thought she was having sex with someone else, right?

Spike laughed. “You do that. Let me know how he likes it.”

“I will! I really, really will!”

Spike didn’t even answer that time, just waved his hand in dismissal, still looking up at the ceiling like there was a really hard math problem written up there. Which was stupid. Harmony could see there wasn’t anything written on the ceiling at all.

And Spike thought he was so smart.

*

Spike was obviously an imbecile.

He’d spent the whole rest of the night after his interlude with the slayer lying about his quarters with a raging stiffy, which was enraging for all sorts of reasons. First off, yeah, the slayer was hot, but she wasn’t all-night-blue-balls hot. Secondly, he’d been presented a solution on a silver platter when Harm had shown up looking for a shag, but he hadn’t taken it, partly because he’d wanted to stick to his plan but mostly because he just hadn’t wanted to shag her, which was appalling. And then, when he’d finally given in to a thorough wank, it had been to images of the slayer’s lips and eyes and her bloody hair, not to images of her bleeding and tormented and dead.

He’d gone mental. Round the bend. He was a fucking lunatic.

He wanted to kiss her again.

He’d managed to sleep after his vastly-unsatisfying release, which was a small favor, and woken in the afternoon to review the dig’s progress with Brian, coming along quite nicely, and then he’d had his spot of stolen pig’s-blood-and-burba-weed, combed his hair a few dozen times, and headed out well before twilight to the bloody gazebo, because he didn’t want to wait until sunset.

Completely mental. A fucking loony. Lights were on, but nobody bloody well home.

She wasn’t there when he arrived, but since it was technically not quite night yet -- the sun was still up, but the gazebo was in the shade of the Foreign Languages Building so he could get to it without even covering his head -- he supposed that was understandable, even though it pissed him off. He passed the time by stalking around the perimeter of the octagonal floor, counting how many paces it took him to a side. He had it down to an art, his bootheel neatly turning at each of the eight corners after four long paces, when she finally arrived, wearing a beige camisole top and jeans. She looked delicious.

Buffy stopped at the top of the gazebo stairs, looking nonplussed. “What are you doing here?”

He stopped mid-pace and turned to her, glaring. “Thought we were meeting here.” What a bitch! When he’d been waiting for a good ten minutes!

“We are. It’s just… it’s not night yet.”

“How very astute of you,” Spike growled.

“I thought we were meeting at-- never mind. Here.” She threw something at him, hard; he snatched it out of the air instinctively, then winced. What if she’d thrown bloody holy water at him? How thick could he be?

It wasn’t holy water, though; it was a crystal.

“My promise,” Buffy said shortly. “You should hang on to it. I’ll hold on to yours. That’s fair, right?”

“Suppose so.” Spike turned the crystal over in his hand a couple times, feeling an odd stab in the vicinity of his chest.

“We have to use them, though.”

“Thought we did.”

“We set the promise. Now we have to prove we kept it. Here, hold it out.”

Spike proffered the crystal.

“I swear to thee I have kept my promise,” Buffy breathed, her warm breath fogging the crystal’s shiny surface. The crystal stayed white.

“Didn’t switch out the crystals, did you?” Spike said nastily, though it did look like the same crystal she’d shown him the night before, down to the flaws in the facets.

“I’m not a cheater,” Buffy sniffed. “Now you.” She held out the crystal Spike had promised to.

“I swear to thee I have kept my promise,” he said, the fervency in his own voice surprising.

Buffy stared at the crystal for a long time, like she was waiting for it to turn black, but it didn’t, and at last she sighed. “Okay. Cool.” She tucked his crystal back in her pocket and Spike dropped hers in the pocket of his duster, the weight feeling oddly significant.

“So I guess we should practice more,” she sighed.

“Only if you want to,” Spike grumbled. “Not looking for bloody charity.”

“We’re partners,” the slayer said grudgingly. “We agreed to this, right? So even though it’s, um, totally gross, we’re in this together.”

“Absolutely vile,” Spike said viciously.

“Really, really gross,” Buffy whispered, walking towards him.

“Utterly detestable,” Spike murmured, eyeing her soft lips as she approached.

“Just so, so--” Buffy tilted her head up and he leaned his down, and their lips met in the middle, cutting off whatever word she’d been about to say -- probably _gross_, she really had a way with words -- and he sank into the kiss like she was a bloody quagmire.

Except she wasn’t there with him. Oh, she was at first, her lips soft and sweet, that rich whiskey-taste of her heady and glorious, but then she pulled away, hesitant. He coaxed her back to him, tender as veal, but it was just getting good when she flinched again.

“Are you even bloody trying?” he muttered the third time it happened.

“Of course I’m trying,” she said sharply, and then she lunged in for another kiss, and god her mouth was hot, hot and perfect and he twined his tongue with hers, drinking in the taste and the feel of her, sliding his hands down the graceful arch of her back, tugging her hips closer to his until her belly was up against his erection, and he groaned and pressed closer and she squeaked in the back of her throat and pulled back, looking at him with wide eyes like she didn’t even recognize him, and then she shoved him away, hard, and turned and ran.

He ran after her.

*

Buffy stumbled down the stairs of the gazebo and a little ways down the path of the little butterfly garden that surrounded it before she could stop her feet from running. But she knew she was being stupid, she was totally overreacting, and she could hear his footsteps behind her, so she managed to stop, panting and wild in the middle of the gravel pathway.

He caught up to her a moment later, stopping bare inches behind her. “What the bloody hell is your bloody problem, Slayer?”

“I’m sorry,” she blurted out. “I swear I’m trying!”

“You’re very bloody trying!” Spike huffed. “You’re trying my bloody patience, that’s what!”

“I’m sorry!” she moaned again, burying her face in her hands, because it was just too embarrassing.

“What is your bleeding hangup, slayer? I thought this was your bloody master plan. I thought you wanted to get your revenge on bloody Angelus!”

“I do! I just--” Buffy wrapped her arms around herself, still facing resolutely away from Spike. “I’m not supposed to… to like it.”

There was a long moment of silence, and then Spike started to laugh, a low chuckle that pissed Buffy off to no end.

“Stop laughing. It’s not funny.”

“Oh, but it is, pet.” Spike’s hands landed on her bare shoulders, gentle. “And how, may I ask, were you expecting to fool Angelus if you didn’t _like it_?”

“We’re going to, um, act coupley. When he sees us, he’s going to--”

“Doesn’t matter what he sees,” Spike interrupted her. “It’s going to depend on what he smells.”

“What?” Buffy tried to turn around, but Spike’s hands were firm, keeping her facing away. He took a step closer, so she could feel his chest brushing against her shoulders, his lips close to her ear.

“Got a news flash for you, princess. Angelus is a vampire.”

“Yes, I am aware of that fact,” Buffy snapped. “I had noticed.”

“Had you?” His voice dropped to a low murmur. “And were you also aware that vampire senses are stronger than humans? That things taste stronger, sound louder, smell sharper.” His hands were stroking her biceps, soothingly, except that Buffy didn’t want to be soothed so it just wound her up more.

“Yeah,” she muttered, letting her hands drop to her sides clenched in fists.

“So, if you don’t_ like it _\-- if you’re not turned on as all bloody get out -- he’ll be able to smell it.”

“What? That’s gross. And probably not even true.”

“Believe me, love. Vampires learn to trust our nose above all else. Scent tells us who’s an easy mark, who’s got disease in their blood, who’s looking for a tumble. Can tell from across a room if you’re turned on, love.” His hands stroked slowly down her arms to her wrists, fingers lightly circling them. “Doesn’t matter how good a show you put on. If Angelus walks in and you smell like you’re watching a bloody documentary, he won’t bat an eye. He’ll walk right back out the door, secure in the knowledge that you’re still his girl.” He smoothed his fingers down over the backs of her hands, unknotting her fists and then weaving his fingers in, until he could slide them between hers, all laced together.

Buffy swallowed, senses tingling. “I’m _not his girl._” She could still feel the path Spike’s fingers had trailed down her arms, goosebumps left in their wake, and her breath was coming faster, she could feel it, feel her heartbeat speeding up to match, and she instinctively curled her fingers around his, holding on tight.

Spike’s lips brushed her ear. “Yeah? Prove it.”

Buffy swallowed, eyes fixed on the path ahead of her. “So, you mean I have to… really? _Really_?”

He pressed a light kiss to the soft spot just behind her jaw. “Really really.” He kissed slowly down the tendon of her throat. “Don’t worry, baby. I’ve got you.”

And oh, her senses were screaming at her now, a cacophonous chorus, every inch of her drenched in awareness of danger, because he was kissing her throat, a vampire, an evil vampire, an evil vampire who hated her, his lips were on her throat, he could bite her at any moment, and at the same time it felt good, it felt wonderful, the soft pressure of his lips, the flick of his tongue, and oh, those were teeth but blunt teeth, human teeth, nibbling delicately at her deltoid, and she gripped his hands tight, ready to fling him away if he bit her for real, except he didn’t, and she was left holding on for dear life as his lips kept on, brushing the strap of her cami off her shoulder as he kissed down her bicep, then back across her shoulder blade, nuzzling her hair aside to kiss up her spine to the nape of her neck, and then his lips traveled back across to her ear and then to her jaw, the sensitive underside, and up her cheek and she turned her face to meet him, feeling her own lips trembling as she brushed them against his, and then all of her was turning, melting into him, her hands releasing his and sliding up his chest and around his neck, gliding into his hair, and his hands settled at the small of her back, caressing the bare patch of skin between her top and her jeans, and his tongue was on hers and god it was sleek, sleek and hot, everything she’d confessed to Cordelia and more, it was better than good, and she drew him back off the path, out of the lamplight, back behind the gazebo until her back was up against the rough wood and he pressed his body to hers, groaning into her mouth, rubbing his chest against her, and she arched into him, the friction against her breasts making her dizzy, except she had to breathe, she broke away, gasping for air, and he drew back and just looked at her, eyes glittering and unreadable.

“That’s right, pet,” he murmured, one hand coming up to caress her cheek as he continued as if they hadn’t stopped talking to kiss in the first place. “To win this, to get our revenge, we’re going to have to go deep. We can’t just put on a bloody play. You need to have passion coming out of your pores. And I… I need to be covered with you. Drenched in the scent of your heat.”

Buffy looked at him, still panting, wondering just how much _light PDA_ it would take to cover Spike in her scent, to _drench_ him, and just what she smelled like to a vampire, and god, what did she smell like now? Did she smell good? Did she smell… did she smell turned on? How could she even ask?

Except she didn’t have to ask, because he lowered his face to her shoulder, inhaling deeply. “Yeah. Just like that, love,” he whispered into her collarbone. “That’s just the scent we need. Except more.” He pressed his lips sweetly to the hollow of her throat, and it felt electric, and powerful, and _good. _So, so good, and bad at the same time, and Buffy had to agree. She needed more.

“Then I guess we’ll just have to keep practicing,” Buffy said in a throaty voice she barely recognized as her own.

“If you insist,” Spike groaned, and then his lips were on hers again, and it was so much better than good.

It was perfect.

*

Harmony sighed mournfully. It really was too bad that Parker was human, because if he had been a vampire, he would have been _perfect._

She had stormed out of Spike’s lair and off to the little side room she had claimed as her own -- well, there was another vampire who said it was his room, but when Harmony had made up her bed on one side with all her blankets and pillows and pointedly set up the screen as a divider and told him if he touched her Spike was so going to make him regret ever being sired, he’d just sighed all mean and told her to fuck off and had left her alone after that, so it was kind of like having her own room. Anyhow, she’d curled up in her blankets and cried until it was almost dark, and then she’d gotten changed into her cutest bustier and done her makeup and her hair until she totally looked like she’d stepped off the cover of Cosmo, and swept past the lame tunnel crew and out of the lair, because she had a _date_ with her _boyfriend_.

Spike wasn’t there to see her exit, which made it kind of a waste, but maybe Brian would tell him later.

So anyhow, she’d joined Parker at another party -- that was another nice thing about college guys, they always had parties to hang out at, instead of lame tunnels and boring graveyards -- and she’d made sure he didn’t ask too many hard questions about her, keeping the focus on him, because guys liked that, and also because his first couple of questions about the physics department had been really confusing. Like, did she care if they had the best telescope in California? Or lots of lasers? Talking about him was much safer.

He was so sweet, though. He kept bringing the conversation back to her. Like, he’d been caressing her shoulder in the gentlest way, and he’d noticed her sire’s bite.

“Wow,” he’d said in surprise. “Did you have a run-in with an angry puppy, too?”

“Too?”

“Oh, Buffy had a scar just like that. She said it was a puppy.”

“Oh. Well, you know, she started telling that story after she heard about my scar. She was always such a copycat.”

He shrugged. “Well, I can see why she’d want to be like you.”

“What about you?” Harmony asked quickly. “Do you have any, um, scars?”

“Oh, mine are all psychological,” he laughed.

That was confusing. “Like, on your brain?”

Parker blinked, then smiled again. “Well, my father died last year.”

“Aww,” Harmony crooned. “Poor baby!”

“No, it’s okay. I'm not trying some deep, get sympathy routine. I mean, don't you just hate guys that are all 'I'm dark and brooding so give me love?'”

“Oh, totally. Or, like, guys who get all hung up on their ex-girlfriends and don’t know how to treat their current girlfriends. Those are the worst.”

Parker blinked again, mouth dropping open for a moment before he continued. “I just wanted to say that it was so sad because there was a lot of stuff that he didn't finish. It makes me think about, you know, living for now.”

“That’s so smart,” Harmony gushed. “I mean, when I died -- of course, uh, I didn’t really die, because duh, I’m here -- I was like, wow, I should have totally used Daddy’s credit card and bought that Vuitton purse I wanted.”

“That's great,” Parker said, smiling sadly. “I mean, everybody says they get it. 'Oh, man. Me too. Live for today.' But what they really want is a reason to goof off. Not study for finals.”

“Studying is totally overrated,” Harmony said with conviction.

Another blink. “But you’re in the physics department. You must study all the time.”

“Oh, well, yeah. Of course. But, um, I don’t let it stop me. I still live for now.” Geez, why did he keep wanting to know about physics? Why didn’t he want to know how she got her hair so perfectly shiny and smooth, even when it was humid? Harmony could talk for hours about _that _science. “So, why don’t you tell me about _your _major?” she said coyly, leaning in towards him so he could see how awesome her cleavage was. She’d even sprinkled on some glitter today.

Parker smiled modestly. “Well, I declared premed. But I hated it. So I switched to history.”

Ugh. Harmony had hated history. History teachers always wanted to make you do, like, projects with research and stuff. But she smiled and looked interested, because he obviously liked it. “Wow. You must really like, um, dates and stuff.”

He laughed. “No, there’s something amazing about these huge events. You know, when you dig down into them, they're just about regular people trying to make choices. When you look back at it, it seems like people were swept up in events they couldn't control. But I don't believe that. I believe you have a choice in everything you do.”

He was looking at her with those big eyes, and looking at her lips, and Harmony may have gotten a C-minus in English, but she sure knew how to read guys’ faces, and so she leaned in and gave him what he wanted, one sweet, perfect kiss.

He drew away after, looking shy. “Is this okay? Because I can stop if you want to. It's your choice.”

Harmony set her hand to his face and sighed. It really was a shame that he was human. Why couldn’t Spike have been like this? All sweet and tender and letting her be the boss? But no, Spike had to be all mean and _grr _and _I’m the Big Bad!_ and _sod off! _and here was Parker being all sweet and gentle... and so she realized what she had to do.

She ran her hand through Parker’s hair and down the side of his neck, down inside the collar of his polo shirt.

“What are you doing?” he asked softly.

Harmony smiled beatifically, leaning into his shoulder. “Making a choice,” she whispered.

She vamped out and sank her teeth into his throat.


	5. Chapter 5

“Hello, love.”

Buffy turned to greet her lover, her breath quickening at the sight of him in the candlelight. “Hello, Spike,” she breathed, meeting his eyes significantly. His eyes flared just the tiniest bit -- so powerful, the way she affected him! -- and he leaned in for a kiss, just a peck but with such intention behind it that she tingled all the way down to the toes of her boots. It was so hot, she didn’t care that people might be watching; she tilted her chin up and caught his earlobe between her teeth, just enough pressure to let him know she meant business. “You look good tonight.”

“So do you, my love,” he said warmly, kissing her again. His hand lifted to stroke her cheek, her hair, and then down onto her shoulder, and--

She flinched.

Spike stepped away, jaw twitching with ire. “Sodding hell, Slayer!”

“Oh, shut up, Spike!” Buffy buried her face in her hands, frustrated.

They’d been meeting for a week, and Buffy was at the end of her rope. The gazebo had proven to be not private enough for their smoochfests -- not after that first night, when a pack of drunken freshmen had tried to start a fight with Spike that Buffy had barely averted -- and so the next night she’d met Spike at a dusty crypt just inside the gates of an older cemetery, one that didn’t have any space left so they didn’t need to worry about close encounters of the freshly-undead kind. It had given them just the privacy they’d needed, cozy enough once they’d dressed it up with some candles, and after six consecutive nights of Really Serious Smooching, Buffy had figured they were getting somewhere.

Except she hadn’t counted on her slayer instincts.

Kissing they’d managed to get down. If there had been an academic award for kissing, like Phi Beta Smoocha, Buffy would have her golden key already. The kissing was really, really, really, really, phenomenally good.

The problem was, they needed to appear in public as if they were dating. Which was not, Buffy had informed Spike regretfully, just about liplocks.

“Kissing gets you hot,” he’d argued.

“Yes, but everyone knows I am a private person,” Buffy had countered, flushing a little. “We need to give the illusion of intimacy when we’re not kissing.”

“Fair enough,” he’d shrugged. “Shall we start with your tits?”

“No!” she’d practically shrieked, hands coming up to cover her already-covered-by-clothes bosom.

“Oh, you’d like me to leap straight for the clitoris?” he’d laughed, waggling his eyebrows in a way that said he had some stupid joke she didn’t get.

“Try touching my shoulder,” she’d said firmly, if a bit faintly. “You know. You touch my shoulder, I look at you like I’m melting, you look at me like you wish you were touching, um, those other parts.”

He’d looked at her, eyes dark. “Rather touch your other parts in the first place.”

“Spike. We can lie about a lot of other things, but nothing will ever convince Willow and Xander that I am letting you touch my boobs in public. They will immediately start trying to figure out what spell I’m under. That is not the effect we are going for.”

Spike had pointedly looked at her chest then, the jerk. “The girls look like they’re on board. Or do they always stand to attention like that?”

Buffy had crossed her arms over her annoyingly-sensitive breasts. “Focus, Spike.”

“Oh,” he’d crooned towards her chest. “I am very focused.” His eyes had dropped to her crotch, nostrils flaring in that gross-vampire-sniffing-way that was starting to feel… less-than-gross.

“Asshole,” she’d squeaked.

“Bitch,” he’d muttered.

And that had been the end of that discussion, because Spike had lunged at her and she’d lunged at him and they’d ended up Frenching against a dusty sarcophagus until it was way past her bedtime. Thank god she didn’t have an eight o’clock class like Willow.

The kissing part was going really, really, really, really, phenomenally well.

That was part of the problem, really. They’d get together to practice, and they’d start off with the kissing, for, um, review purposes, and by the time they’d established that yes, kissing was still a thumbs-up, all sorts of other things were… up, and Buffy couldn’t settle into the easy intimacy they were trying for. Especially not with her hackles already pre-raised by the mere fact of him being a vampire. Spike would try the simplest of things -- a shoulder caress, or a stroke across her waist -- and Buffy would freak.

Which was the exact opposite of easy intimacy. Really, not what she wanted to portray.

Spike was trying very hard to be patient -- she could tell, because he hadn’t tried to kill her yet, which was kind of amazing for an evil, short-attention-span-theatre vampire -- but _seriously. _It was all his fault. He was the one who had to go and mention her breasts and, um, other specific parts, and now that was all she could think about. His fingers would stroke, and her extremely-unhelpful brain would extrapolate, and before she could stop herself she’d flinch as if he’d actually leaped straight for her… nethers.

She’d kind of talked about it with Cordelia, in a very roundabout way, and Cordelia had been depressingly blunt.

“Jeez, Buffy. Let the poor guy get to second base. Trust me, you’ll enjoy it, too.”

She would.

That was actually the problem.

Actually, Buffy had been imagining it way too much. Except every time she imagined it, there was that moment of truth, when he finally actually saw second base, or second bases, AKA her breasts, and… well, they weren’t big. And if her mom was any indication, they weren’t ever going to get big. And guys liked big breasts. Didn’t they? She was pretty sure they did. And if Spike really liked big breasts, and he saw her breasts and they didn’t live up to his expectations of breasts, she was just going to have to stake him to assuage her embarrassment. Which would set her back literal weeks in the revenge department. (Parker was obviously a lost cause after all. He hadn’t called her once since the party-gone-Spike. She hadn’t even seen him in the cafeteria or on the quad. He’d probably found some other nice girl who would never, ever abandon him at a party to go plan smoochy revenge on an ex with an evil vampire. Not exactly fair, but Buffy was used to her life not being fair.)

Cordelia had not been helpful, either. “For god’s sake,” she’d snapped. “Just let him feel you up already. There isn’t a straight guy alive who is going to turn down nipples. Who cares what size they are? They’re breasts. If a guy is seeing breasts, he’s happy.” And then Cordelia had gone off on a weird tangent about ghosts and detachable penises. Well, maybe she hadn’t actually said _penises_, but she’d talked about detachable parts, and that was where Buffy’s sad, twisted little brain had gone. Whatever was going on in LA, it wasn’t pretty.

But anyhow, what if _Spike _cared about breast size? Of course, Drusilla had been kind of less-than-Buffy in the chestage department, if she recalled correctly from that time she’d threatened to stake her, but Buffy also wasn’t a cray-cray vampire, which might make all the difference.

If Spike laughed at her smaller-than-average breasts, she was going to die of embarrassment. Also stake him. And then die again. There would be dying and stakeage and dying and zero revenge… age. Not. The. Plan.

But the shoulder thing… wasn’t working either.

Spike had started pacing after their latest crash-and-burn, and Buffy couldn’t blame him. All they had been trying to do was a practice night at the Bronze. Buffy out with her friends, Spike entering all unawares, instant sparkage and chemistry that the Scoobies couldn’t help but be concerned about and report to either Angel or Giles. Easy peasy, Buffy had declared.

“I’m sorry,” she said, grouchy. “I can’t help it. You’re still evil.”

Spike rolled his eyes. “As if the evil isn’t what gets you hot.”

“It isn’t!” Buffy protested. “It’s just… well, I’m not used to you touching me.”

“Well, get used to it!” Spike snapped. “I have evil plans to get back to.”

“Not in my town.”

“Fuck you.”

“Likewise.” Buffy still didn’t feel comfortable dropping F-bombs left and right, but Spike sure deserved them.

“You wish.”

Buffy didn’t bother to respond to that low blow, because she was already strategizing. “Maybe it’s like the frog thing.”

Spike’s eyebrows shot up. “Frog thing? Kinky.”

“Oh, shut up. No, I mean how, um, if you wanted to cook a frog or… maybe a lobster. I don’t want to cook Kermit.”

“Point?”

“No, it’s like a saying. How if you want to cook a lobster, or a frog, you just start them off in cold water, and then slowly heat it up. The water comes to a boil gradually. By the time they figure out something’s wrong, they’re cooked.”

Spike grinned, leaning up against the sarcophagus. “Sounds terrible. Much more humane to just kill them up front.”

“One, I cannot believe the word ‘humane’ just crossed your lips. Two, it’s metaphorical.”

“Ah.”

“I’m just saying, maybe I need to get used to the heat.”

“Uh… yeah?”

And Buffy did it. She leaped off into the abyss, no turning back, make-or-break, god she hoped she didn’t need her stake tonight. She was crossing the Rubicon.

She whipped her shirt off over her head.

Spike’s eyes got all glassy as he stared at her breasts. “Huh.”

“I just turned up the heat,” Buffy said stoutly, resisting the urge to cover up. She was still wearing her bra, after all.

“Huh,” Spike said absently, still staring.

Buffy set her hands on her hips. “Something wrong?”

“What could possibly be wrong?”

“They’re not…. You’ve probably seen better.”

Spike shrugged, still looking at her chest.

“They’re too small,” Buffy said softly.

“Are they?” Spike replied. “Let me check.”

And his hands curved around her breasts, stroking her through the fabric of her bra, and Buffy tried not to keel over.

“Are they okay, then?” she whispered, feeling half-broken already.

“You’re mental,” Spike muttered, thumbs flicking at her nipples through the fabric. “Of course they’re okay. Take your sodding bra off.”

“Why?”

“Just take it off.” He bent and pressed his forehead to her sternum so she was left staring at his neatly-slicked-back hair. “Please.”

She closed her eyes and reached behind her back, flicking the double hooks open.

He let out a gusty sigh, his hands scooping up under her bra and tugging it off and tossing it aside and _oh god oh god oh god_ his fingers on her skin were… she had to… she whimpered, actually _whimpered_, and it was so embarrassing she almost punched him in the nose and ran out of the crypt just then.

Except he whimpered back.

That had definitely been a whimper.

“God, Slayer,” he whispered brokenly into the space between her breasts. “You’re sodding gorgeous.”

“Yeah?” she whispered back, feeling warm.

“Perfect,” he said fervently, and then he leaned back to watch his hands on her breasts. His hands were on her breasts, they absolutely were, and Buffy bit her lip and watched his face for cruel rejection even as she arched into his touch.

“Bloody perfect,” he said again, and Buffy blushed, hands coming up to hide her breasts after all.

Spike glared into her eyes then, hands dropping. “Second thoughts?”

“No!” Buffy scoffed, then sighed, planting her hands over her breasts. "It's just… weird. You looking."

"This was your idea," he said reasonably. “Well, I had the idea first, if you’ll recall, but you didn’t like it until it was your idea.”

"Well, yeah, but I didn't know you were going to look so…" _Focused? Single-minded? Hungry? Like my boobs are a seven-course meal and you’re starving? _She gestured vaguely, then hastily covered her chest again.

He raised an eyebrow. "And just how is a bloke supposed to look, under these circumstances?"

"I don't know. I just feel… naked."

"That's because you are. Well, half."

"Yeah." She swallowed. "Maybe if you, um, took your shirt off, too?"

His eyelids drooped slightly, and he smiled, shrugging out of his duster and setting it aside with surprising care, and then his black T-shirt was coming off over his head, slowly, exposing his pale, hard chest inch by inch, and Buffy's mouth went dry.

The T-shirt landed on the duster. "Better?"

"Um. Not really?" If anything, she was more nervous now. It was a crime, a chest and abs like that belonging to an evil vampire that she completely hated.

“Perhaps this will help.” He grinned ferally, his fingers going to his belt buckle.

"Whoa! Stop!"

"What? Just thought you might feel less naked if I were more naked than you."

"I am very certain that is not the solution."

"Really? Don't mind at all." He was still grinning, obviously enjoying himself way too much.

"I just bet you don't." She sighed again, considering. "Maybe if you just don't _look _while you're...?"

"Isn't it usually the other way around? 'Look but don't touch?'"

"These are, um, special circumstances."

"That they are." Spike glared at her for a long moment, considering. "Come here, pet."

"I am here."

"Closer."

She stepped closer, trembling, hands still over her breasts, and he set his hands on her shoulders and turned her so she was facing off towards the crypt door.

“Now you can’t see me looking,” he said in a low voice. “Better?”

“Yes, but--”

“Hush.” He tugged her back so she was leaning against him, his bare chest against her bare shoulder blades, and then his hands covered hers, pressing her palms against her nipples, rubbing them in slow circles.

Oh god, there went another whimper.

“Better?” he purred, and she managed to nod, because it was -- even knowing he was looking at her wasn’t the same as looking at him looking at her, there was just enough plausible deniability that she could relax, and feel, and think.

Okay, maybe not think, because thinking made her think she was kind of crazy, but feeling was good. Feeling was very, very good.

He caught her hands up in his then, lifting them off her breasts and drawing them up, tucking them behind his neck; she laced her fingers together at his nape, panting with anticipation as he stroked his fingers lightly from her hands down her arms, across her elbows, her triceps, skirting her ticklish armpits until they finally, finally curved around her breasts again, his thumbs coming to rest on her nipples, and she relaxed into him, feeling a groan rumble through his chest, his stomach muscles twitching, and then she smiled, because she might not be a vampire, but she could definitely tell Spike was turned on too, without smelling at all; he was hard against her butt and she leaned into that too, finding it weirdly comforting.

His thumbs circled her nipples slowly. “This what you wanted, love?”

“_Want_ is a very strong word,” she said, trying to keep her voice light. Which was not easy when she was still feeling all whimpery.

“Craved, then.” He pressed his lips to that spot he’d figured out on night two, right at the top of her collarbone. His thumbs kept circling, like vultures, she thought dizzily, except not vultures, because vultures were gross and this was really not-gross. What was a really, really fantastic version of vultures?

“You know all I _crave _is my revenge,” she bluffed. “This is just business.”

“Mmm.” He trailed his lips up to her sensitive ear. He’d figured out that one that first night by the gazebo, and had been attentive to it every night since. “Of course it is. You hate me.”

“I do,” Buffy groaned. “I really, really hate you.”

His thumbs got rougher, and so did his voice. “Not half so much as I hate you.”

“As long as we have that straight.” Oh god, what was he doing? She looked down at his hands, pale white against her carefully-acquired tan, watching in fascination as he massaged and plucked and caressed. She hadn’t ever… looked at her breasts when she was turned on, hadn’t realized how pink her nipples got, even in the dim light from the candles Spike had arranged around the crypt, the way they roughened and stiffened, and just looking at them now was turning her on more.

“Feel good, baby?” he growled in her ear.

How was she supposed to answer that? She’d never been asked a question like that before. Angel... hadn’t been much of a talker when they’d made love, had gotten them under the covers as fast as he could, just a few whispered words of love, which had thrilled her at the time, but had been nothing like Spike’s frank sensuality, the way he didn’t just want to make her feel good, he wanted her to say it, wanted her to admit it, wanted her to see and feel and understand everything that her body was experiencing, and suddenly she realized she wanted him to know, too. She’d gotten used to honesty, talking to Cordelia, and she wanted it here, too, with Spike, here in their secret hideaway.

And so she bit back her coyness and her shyness and her fear. “Yes,” she said roughly. “It feels… it feels amazing.”

“Want more?”

“Yes,” she said, voice shaking the slightest bit.

“Good,” he whispered into her skin, and then his movements intensified, and she couldn’t say anything, everything in her was focused on his hands, and oh god, she was starting to get terrible ideas, demented ideas, ideas that shouldn’t even see the light of day, and before she put those ideas into words too, before she tumbled into more than she was ready for, she turned her head, lips searching, and then they were kissing, hard and hot, and she twisted and turned until she was facing him again, because she didn’t care so much what he could see, now that she’d seen it herself, she wanted him to know the color and the texture and the beauty of her breasts because they weren’t too small, not when he touched them, and not when he looked at them, and she wanted it all.

He didn’t rub it in, either, which was a little surprising, but then again maybe not, because he was definitely as into things as she was, his hands and lips urgent, and then he turned her again so her back was to the sarcophagus and then lifted her up so she was sitting on it, which also put her chest right at his eye level, and he stepped back and gazed at her like a painter eyeing his masterpiece.

She tossed her hair defiantly. “Got a problem?”

“You’re my bloody problem,” he growled, setting his hands on either side of her hips.

“Good.” She leaned down and kissed him, rubbing her breasts against his smooth chest. “My work here is done.” God, his chest felt good; she laid her palms flat against him, let them stroke over his contours, pale as marble but softer than stone, just enough give under her fingers to feel real as she explored his chest and his ribs and his belly, feeling him quiver under her caresses.

He sank a hand into her hair and kissed her back, deep and desperate. “Not bloody done. You wanted more.”

“I do want more,” Buffy said imperiously.

He set his hands to her cheeks, eyes blazing into hers. “Let me taste them.”

Buffy went still, unable to tear her gaze away. “What?”

“I want to taste them,” he said fiercely. “Your bloody gorgeous tits.”

She leaned her forehead against his, inhaling deeply, but she couldn’t pretend, not when her body was screaming _yes_. “Just a taste?” she teased instead. “Is that going to be enough for you?”

He slid one hand down to curve around a breast, testing its weight, thumbing the nipple. “Could feast on these all night, love,” he whispered. “Let me.”

Buffy stroked along his chest again, thumbs grazing his flat nipples. “Why should I let you?” The nipples hardened under her touch, which she hadn’t been expecting at all; she gave them a delicate pinch, relishing his gasp.

“Because you crave it,” he said harshly. “You want me to.”

Buffy opened her mouth to deny it, automatically, but then she looked at his tense face, his hands on her, her hands on him, and she kissed his forehead instead, because she knew what Cordelia would say, what Cordelia had said. What Cordelia would do.

_Let him._

“Yes,” she said softly into the velvet dimness of the crypt. “I do want you to.”

He ducked his head down then, and Buffy knew what he was doing, she could see it coming, but _let him_ Cordelia had said and _let him _every inch of her screamed, and so she let him, she arched into his mouth as it closed over her nipple, and she wrapped her arms around his neck, tugging him closer, stroking every inch of him that she could reach, and oh, god, god, he was licking and sucking and she was whimpering again, except she didn’t care, she wasn’t ashamed, she wasn’t embarrassed, she wanted more, and he was giving it to her, and so she gave it back, she gave her enjoyment and her arousal and her own caresses, and she let him feast.

“Do you like that?” he said after a bit, voice catching.

“Yeah,” she managed. “It’s, um, really good.” There had to be other words to describe it, but her brain was unworky now.

“Good.” He nuzzled her belly tenderly.

Buffy stroked his hair. “Does it… um, would you like….” Why was this harder than demanding he pleasure her? “Will you... let me?”

He looked at her blankly, like she was speaking Swahili, but she was already sliding off the sarcophagus, and when she licked across his pectoral he jumped and swore and brushed his thumb across her cheek, and so she set him up against the stone and tried it, tried what he’d done to her, licks and sucks and the tiniest, most delicate hint of teeth, and he groaned and surrendered to her, murmuring encouragement and endearments. It was heady, the way he responded to her, the catch in his voice, and she let her lips travel elsewhere, her tongue delving into that tempting dip above his bicep, the ridges along his ribcage, and she was nuzzling into his belly button when Buffy realized she was heading in a dangerous direction. She desperately wanted to do… things she didn’t want to do. She could see the abyss in front of her, another abyss, a deeper abyss, a terrifying abyss, one she couldn’t turn back from, and she took a deep breath... and stepped back.

“So,” she said carefully once she had her breathing back under control. “Want to try the shoulder thing again?”

He looked at her for a long moment before agreeing with a sharp nod.

This time, she didn’t flinch.

*

“No, for the, like, millionth time, we are not going to have sex!”

Harmony glared at her new minion, fuming. Just who did Parker think he was? She hadn’t sired him because she wanted to have sex, duh. She’d wanted him to do what he had been doing -- listening to her, treating her like a queen, fetching her drinks -- except she’d liked him enough to make him immortal, so he could do it for eternity without getting old and gross. He should be thanking her for the opportunity to be her slave! And here he was expecting her to put out? For a _minion_?

Things were just not going according to plan.

Parker still had his big, big eyes, and his winning smile, but now that he was a vampire, it turned out he was a total pervert with absolutely zero sense of loyalty and family feeling. He had, like, zero respect for her authority as his sire, even though she’d totally remembered what Spike had told her about how to make the best vampire minions -- or most of it, at least. She could have sworn she’d done it the way Spike had said would make a freshly-sired minion retain the most of their life memories and personality. Maybe Spike had left something important out?

“So listen,” she said impatiently. “I am your sire. You are my minion. This means you have to do what I say.”

Parker’s face slid into confusion that would have looked adorable if he weren’t also kind of smirking in a way that made Harmony think he was making fun of her. “You’re my sire? I thought the word _sire _was masculine.” He looked at her boobs pointedly.

“Ugh. It just means I, like, made you a vampire.”

“Well, that’s very inaccurate terminology.”

“It’s just how we vampires say it,” Harmony snapped. “Deal with it!”

He shrugged insolently. “So why can’t we have sex?”

“Because you are my _minion_, and I have standards.”

“You liked me before.” His eyes got all puppydoggy and adorable, and Harmony thawed a little.

“I still like you,” she said regally. “I just, you know, I’m saving myself for Spike.”

“Buffy’s Spike? Your ex?”

“Long. Story.” Harmony sighed. “Look, just, you know, be like you were before. Nice.”

He shrugged again. “I was trying to get laid before.”

“What?”

“I mean, I had been working on Buffy, because she was obviously kinda damaged, and everyone knows the girls with issues are bunnies in the sack as long as you cut them loose right after, but then she ran off and you showed up, and I figured you’d be just as easy.” He looked at her soulfully. “I didn’t think you were going to kill me instead.”

“I didn’t kill you,” Harmony reassured him. “I sired you. _Big _difference.”

“But you didn’t fuck me. What a waste of time.”

“You said you liked me! You said I was smart!”

He actually rolled his eyes. “Like I thought you were a physics major for even two seconds.”

“But you said…. So it was all lies?”

“It’s not like you were being all that honest, either. And your lies sucked. Everybody knows that if you’re going to lie, you need to know what you’re talking about. You didn’t even get that joke I made about Schrödinger’s Cat.”

“Is that the cat you said might be dead? The one that I cried about for ten whole minutes? Duh, even vampires like cute fuzzy animals!”

He just smirked at her, like she was still missing the joke, and Harmony was about to slap him, but then she heard a noise from the entrance and she turned and saw it was Spike. Finally!

“Quick!” she hissed at Parker. “Kiss me!”

He shrugged and kissed her. It wasn’t sweet and melty like it had been before -- he, like, totally stuck his tongue in her mouth before she was ready! -- but Harmony put up with it because Spike was walking by, and just as he was passing she shoved Parker away.

“Oh! Spike!” She giggled. “Fancy meeting you here.”

He looked at her like she was an alien. “I live here.”

“What a coincidence! Me too!” Harmony grabbed Parker’s arm, pulling him closer. “So Spike, meet Parker. He’s my new minion.”

Spike shrugged. “Cheers.”

Harmony looked at Spike more closely, feeling a growl at the back of her throat. Was that a hickey on his throat? Maybe it was just a trick of the light. “And just what have you been up to?”

He grinned then, though it was a funny grin, like he was drunk or something. “Snogging the slayer.”

She glared, wrapping her arms around Parker’s neck. “You and your stupid revenge plan!”

“What’s a slayer?” Parker asked, his voice muffled by her cleavage.

“Nothing important,” Harmony sniffed. “She’s, like, a bug. Spike’s going to kill her any day now. Right?”

Spike shrugged again, and Harmony got a better look at the hickey, which was definitely a hickey, which was, like, super gross. Spike was a totally pathetic excuse for a vampire, letting the slayer give him hickeys and stuff when he could be getting much, much better hickeys from Harmony. He even smelled like the slayer! Totally lame.

“Come on,” she growled at Parker, grabbing him by the scruff of his neck. “Let’s go to my room.”

He brightened. “To have sex?”

Spike waved an unconcerned hand and headed in the opposite direction.

“Yep,” Harmony said loudly as Spike walked away. “We are totally going to have sex.”

“Finally,” Parker sighed as she dragged him away.

*

Spike lay back on his bed staring at the ceiling, the way he had for the past week, every time he’d come home after snogging the slayer.

...Buffy. He didn’t say it out loud to her, always called her _Slayer_, but he thought of her by name when he was alone. Buffy. Buffy. _Buffy._

What a fucking ridiculous name. Made him think of terrible eighties movies, and valley girl accents, and bloody cheerleaders, which made him think of Buffy wearing a short little cheerleader’s costume, which made him think of fucking Buffy wearing a short little cheerleader’s costume. She’d show up at their crypt in it, looking all innocent and pure, except then she’d flip her skirt at him and he’d see she had no knickers, naughty naughty, and then she’d throw him down to the floor and rip open his jeans and ride him, waving her pom-poms, spelling out his name as she came….

It was bloody ridiculous, he growled to himself. Didn’t bloody matter what he thought of these days -- Gr’shakk demons, Italian food, bloody Teletubbies -- his demented brain would turn every train of thought towards yet another twisted fantasy of fucking Buffy. Or Buffy fucking him.

Even now, he could hear Harmony loudly shagging her new toy, yelling out her pleasure, and instead of thinking of Harmony’s tits, he was thinking of the way the slayer had turned to him, the hot slide of her mouth, her sweet little gasps and whimpers, her hard little raspberry nipples, and he took it further in his head, laying her down on the sarcophagus as he undid his trousers, plunging into her wet, fragrant heat, fucking her and fucking her until she was screaming his name….

He sighed and sat up, burying his face in his hands. Bloody fantasies weren’t going to let him sleep yet again, he admitted to himself. Might as well go get some bloody work done.

“Ooh, Parker!” Harmony was trilling as he stalked back out into the common area. “You’re the best! I’ve never, ever felt this way before! Never!”

Spike grimaced and grabbed a jackhammer, heading off down his tunnel.

They were almost there, Brian had said. Less than a week, and they’d be in, and Spike would have the Gem of Amara, and he could stop playing. He could kill the slayer any time he wanted, and he tried to imagine that as he donned his protective goggles and started drilling away. Sinking his fangs into her throat. The hot gush of her blood. Her voice screaming in pain. Buffy's hands clawing at his back, his cock deep inside her, her head thrown back in ecstasy, except no, it was her slick quim he was drinking from, the hot gush of her come, her voice screaming his name as he brought her off again and again, his own voice whispering sweet nothings as he curled around her after, tender lips on her shoulder, nuzzling her soft hair, stroking her soft skin….

He snarled at the rubble he’d been drilling away, tossed the jackhammer aside, and stormed back to his room. Bloody useless, he was. Couldn’t even break rocks, the slayer had made him so thick.

He stripped naked and flopped back on his bed, staring at the ceiling, rough rocks that weren’t even remotely shaped like Buffy’s delectable body, or her smile, or her eyes, except that’s what he saw, that’s all he saw.

She’d been so… curious. Experimental. He was certain, from the way she’d blinked, that she’d never played with a man’s nipples before, but she’d taken to it like a duck to water, turning all the clever techniques he’d plied on her back against him until he was nearly faint, which shouldn’t have even been possible. He was the one who’d spent a good century seducing strangers and learning every possible way to please his woman -- not to mention all the other things he’d learned when Angelus was still part of their fucked-up little family. Shouldn’t be possible for a barely-grown teenybopper ingenue to twist him around. Except she had tonight, from the very start when she’d just dared him with that little scrap of a white lace bra that he couldn’t wait to get off her. The ridiculous banter. The even-more-ridiculous shyness that had lasted hardly any time before she’d been taking charge. That precocious, instinctive curl of her tongue…. He’d been dumbfounded and desperate from the first kiss until she’d inexplicably decided she’d had enough, just when he was starting to think she might not kill him if he went down on her. Or that she might go down on him. Or that she might let him bend her over the bloody sarcophagus and….

Fuck.

Fuck fuck _fuck_.

He should never have agreed to this bloody game. He should have just blown her off, laid low until he had his Gem, and then killed the twat. He could have sent Angelus a bloody Polaroid of her corpse and then been back on his way to South America. It would have been neat, it would have been quick, and it would have been safe.

It would have been… boring.

That was the real problem. Spike was having too much fun winding Buffy up to even regret the pleasures he’d sacrificed. He’d philosophically drunk his pig's blood -- the obviously-used-to-vamps butcher had winked at him when he’d gone to pick up the first order Buffy had paid for, saying something about college girls taking a walk on the wild side, and Spike had winked back, because the butcher wasn’t wrong -- and watched the telly instead of hunting, and wanked instead of finding an agreeable partner to fuck, and he was still having the most fun he’d had in years.

He’d known the slayer had fire in her, of course, from the way she fought and the way she bitched and the way she walked in her chunky-heeled boots, but it had all been covered up with a layer of goody-goody prissiness and girlish insecurities. Now that she’d flung some of that away, Buffy was… fire. Sunlight. Lava. A bomb waiting to go off. And Spike was salivating just waiting for the explosion.

She’d almost exploded tonight, he was certain of it. It had been a shock when she’d stepped away, such a shock he hadn’t even felt angry, just… bereft. They’d been there together, in that glorious world of tongues and skin and desperate arousal, and then he’d been shut out again, and they’d gone back to rehearsal for their revenge show just as if nothing had changed.

_Nothing has changed,_ he thought bitterly. He was still going to ruin Angelus, still going to drain the slayer, still going to get Dru back. That was all going to happen, tomorrow or the next day or the next.

But oh, how he wanted Buffy _today._

Harmony had finally left, announcing loudly enough that everyone in the lair could hear how she and her favorite minion Parker were going to go out hunting before having lots more sex, and in the dim silence that followed Spike could let his mind wander again, back to their crypt, back to Buffy leaning down, taking panting licks across his stomach, her hot breath and her soft hair like candle flames against his skin, except this time she didn’t step back. She set her hands to his belt buckle and looked up at him shyly, her green eyes shining in the candlelight.

_Let me, _she whispered.

“Yeah,” he groaned, his hand wrapping around his cock as he imagined her lips parting around the head, her hot mouth enveloping him, her tongue-- Fuck, he was halfway there already and he’d barely started, but he’d been hard as stone since Buffy had taken her shirt off out of the blue, or since she’d walked into the crypt in the first place, or since he’d woken up that afternoon thinking about going to meet Buffy at the crypt, and he needed release, he needed… Buffy.

She’d smelled glorious tonight, her musky arousal hanging in the crypt like incense, and he suddenly wondered what she’d done after she’d left. Had she gone back to her dorm room still thinking of him? Had she lain on her bed naked, just like he was, and touched herself, her strong, slender fingers stroking her wet cunt, grunting and groaning as she brought herself off? Spike pictured it then, the glide of her hand, the slick gleam of her wet pussy, the ecstatic look on her face, the sound of her voice crying out his name, and he growled her name in response as he came hard, his cock throbbing in his fist.

As his body trembled with release, he glared up at the ceiling, which still didn’t look at all like Buffy.

God, he hated her.

*

She hated Spike. She really, really did.

Buffy wrapped her arms around her knees, feeling out of sorts and squirmy and damp and desperate, but… it had been right to stop. It wasn’t right for Buffy to do those things with... someone she didn’t love. She’d done the right thing. Right?

“Are you freaking_ kidding _me?” Cordelia practically shrieked.

“No, I… um, things were just moving too fast for me,” Buffy said softly, not wanting to start explaining how William was actually Spike, an evil, soulless vampire, and so there were other reasons not to go further.

“Well.” Cordelia sniffed audibly. “All I’m saying is if a guy I wanted had spent -- how long did you say it was? Half an hour?”

“I didn’t use a stopwatch,” Buffy muttered. “But it was, um, a while.”

“Okay. We’ll go with half an hour, because if it was longer than that this guy needs to be nominated for sainthood. You’re saying this guy spent half an hour on second base, a really really fantastic half hour, he _won _second base, and you didn’t bring him on in to third?”

“Well, no.”

“What are you, nuts?”

“Possibly?”

“God. You’re going to need more batteries for your vibrator if you keep this up. And as someone on a really tight budget right now, let me tell you, guys are way cheaper than batteries.”

Buffy curled a little tighter. “I, uh, yeah. More batteries. Check.”

Cordelia’s silence was deafening. Finally, she gasped in realization. “Buffy, you do _have_ a vibrator, right?”

“Not… not as such.”

“Oh. My. God. How did you survive high school without a vibrator? I mean, your fingers just get tired after a while.”

Buffy laughed nervously. “Not… not so much.”

Cordelia snorted. “Buffy Anne Summers. Please tell me you masturbate.”

Buffy opened her mouth and closed it, but her silence was answer enough for Cordelia.

“Holy crap. No wonder you’re such a mess.”

“It’s just…” Buffy flushed. “I tried it. But it was, you know, kinda messy, and I was uncomfortable, and then it didn’t really… go anywhere, so I figured it wasn’t, you know, for me.”

“Oh my god.”

“Well, I didn’t know there was going to be a quiz!” Buffy huffed, irritated.

“No, I mean, I get it. I really do. It’s just… how many times did you and Angel have sex?”

“Just the one. You know that.”

“And Angel never even gave you a handjob? Or went down on you?”

“It was too dangerous,” Buffy argued, though actually... he’d never even put those options on the table. Why hadn’t they been on the table?

“And you don’t take care of it yourself.”

“Like I said, I--”

“No wonder you get so excited about killing vampires. I’d want to kill vampires too, if I’d only had a couple of orgasms in my whole life.”

“Um, one,” Buffy corrected in a small voice.

“One.” Cordelia’s voice dripped with disdain. “Oh, I am going to have to give Angel a stern talking to if that’s all he did for you, along with all the other crap he put you through.” She paused. “Um, if I ever see him again.”

“I think it was one,” Buffy said defensively. “It was kind of hard to tell. So it could have been--”

“Oh my god. Zero! How can you be eighteen years old and have had zero orgasms!”

“I said one!” Buffy squeaked.

“Trust me, if it was hard to tell, you didn’t. That bastard!”

“I really think there was one,” Buffy huffed. “It was nice.”

“Nice!” Cordelia tapped her fingers on the phone. “All right, we are getting off-topic. I wish I’d known all this earlier. Here I’ve been giving you advice like you actually know what I’m talking about.”

“Hey! I took Sex Ed!”

“Uh-huh. Yeah. Super useful stuff. Except it’s only, like, the tip of the iceberg! Buffy, you need to take charge of your own sexuality!”

“Well, that’s what I’m doing now!”

“Oh, sweetie. I know. You’re trying so hard. But you need help.”

Buffy glared at the phone. “Well, that’s why I’m calling you.”

“Buffy, I hate to break it to you, but I have a life. I have a job, I have… well, I don’t have friends here, I guess, but I go to the beach sometimes. I don’t have time to teach you all this stuff over the phone. So here’s what I’m going to do.” Buffy heard some clattering on the other end of the line, and then the sound of typing. “Right now, I am going to email you… a list. A reading list. I can think of three or four books that you need to read, like, right now.”

“It’s the middle of the night.”

“Trust me. The stores that sell these books are open all night. But okay, tomorrow. Tomorrow, before you go drive your poor William completely nutso yet again, you are going to get these books -- get a vibrator while you’re there, too, I’ll email you some recommendations -- and you are going to read them all by the end of the week.”

Buffy laughed. “Is there a test?”

“The test is going to come when you start telling William what you want, and he gives it to you.”

“I don’t… I don’t know what I want.”

“Want to try,” Cordelia clarified. “You need to try stuff, and then you’ll know what you like, and then you can do it more.”

Buffy sighed, but… she’d asked. And she was tired of feeling squirmy and unsatisfied. “Okay.”

“And Buffy? Here’s your assignment for tonight. You are going to go to the showers right now, get a stall way far away from anyone else, and you are going to get your _numero uno_. And _dos_ and _tres_, if your poor fingers can stand it.”

Buffy felt her face turning red again. “I, um, I don’t know how to…”

“God, it’s like junior high all over again. Okay. Here’s what you’re going to do.” And Cordelia rattled off instructions that had Buffy gaping at the phone.

“That was… that was very detailed,” Buffy said when Cordelia was done.

“That’s just a starter,” Cordelia snipped. “But I don’t have time to give you the full lecture. Some things you’re going to have to figure out for yourself.”

Buffy sighed. “Um, thanks?”

“Thank me later. I have to go file some things.”

“Okay. Talk to you soon.”

“Okay. And remember, don’t stop when it feels _nice_. Keep going until it feels like the apocalypse.”

Buffy rolled her eyes. “Yes, ma’am.”

“I’m not kidding. But I do have to go.”

Buffy laughed and said goodbye again and hung up the phone, staring at the ceiling for a long time before she rolled to her feet, gathered up her shower caddy, and headed down the hall.

A little while later, she collapsed against the tiled wall of her shower stall, her legs shaking like there was an earthquake. Except there wasn’t an earthquake. It was her, it was all her, and _god._

Why had she not known this?

When she’d gotten naked and slipped into the shower, insanely grateful that nobody else was around, she’d been halfway to dismissing what Cordelia had said. She _had _had sex, with someone she loved, and it had been really nice, other than the fact that everything blew up after, so she didn’t really think there was anything more to be seen. But, well, she could stand to feel nice again, and she did love herself, and she was definitely turned on, so she figured it wouldn’t hurt to try.

Except it did kind of hurt, because when she’d reached down and touched herself, she was so sensitive and swollen that the pleasure of that first touch had speared through her like pain, and she’d gasped and jerked her hand away like it had been burned, and she’d been right too, because she was all sorts of a mess down there, slick and slippery, but she’d tried again, stroking and stroking, and pretty soon she was feeling nice, really nice, and she remembered what Cordy had said and she kept going, except a little harder and faster, and then it started feeling better than nice, and she could hear Spike’s voice in her ears encouraging her, _there you go, love... god, you’re gorgeous... that’s it... don’t bloody stop now…._ and then the pleasure stopped being nice and started being overwhelming, but she kept going and kept going, until she couldn’t even think, she was nothing but fingers and wetness and blinding pleasure and Spike’s velvety voice woven into it all, and then it crested like a wave, her thighs clamping tight around her hand as she felt herself pulsing and throbbing, and she stood there under the water for a minute feeling like… like she’d opened a plain old door and found a treasure trove.

Except now that the throbbing had lessened she still felt kind of squirmy and urgent, and now she knew the cure, she had the solution, and so she leaned back against the tile and started again, except this time she relaxed and did it slow, focused on what she was doing, and oh, that was nice, but god, _that_ made her shake, and she closed her eyes and in her head she imagined Spike doing this, Spike looking at her and touching her and kissing her, which was terrible, she was terrible, he was terrible, but it was also wonderful, magical, and she built it up and built it up until she was crashing again, except this time she didn’t even stop when she crashed, because Spike wouldn’t stop, not until the very end, and she just kept her fingers going _don’t stop don’t stop don’t stop _and she kept crashing and crashing and crashing and this time she couldn’t hold it in, she kind of yelled, just a little -- good thing nobody else was in the bathroom -- and then she was staring at the water of the shower as it sprayed and trying to think, but failing utterly. Thoughts were as slippery as eels, and she couldn’t quite latch on to any, except one.

_I wonder how I smell now?_


	6. Chapter 6

Spike watched, arms folded, as Brian enlarged the hole they’d pierced into the underside of the crypt. It was morning already, the rest of the minions long since abed for the day, but Spike had collared Brian as he was about to toddle off.

“You said we’d break through tonight.”

“We’re almost through,” Brian stammered. “Just another hour or so of drilling and a bit more to make the entrance passable.”

“Then let’s do it.”

Brian glanced longingly back towards the lair. “But I--”

Spike shook him. “Finish the job. You can eat after.”

And so Brian had kept on drilling at the spot he had deemed thinnest, and not long after, there had been a whoosh and a puff of stale, fetid air and the jackhammer had stabbed into empty space above. The rock had been crumbly; once the initial hole had been pierced, chunks of rock started falling like rain at the jackhammer’s pounding, and soon the opening was round -- Brian was a perfectionist, bloody engineer -- and big enough for Spike’s shoulders to fit through.

“Go watch the tunnel entrance,” he said quietly. “Don’t let any of the fellows through.”

Brian nodded and headed off down the tunnel, and Spike climbed up on the scaffold with a Coleman lantern, hoisting himself up into the crypt.

The room was cavernous and pillared, the lantern light gleaming dully off dusty treasure, shrouded in cobwebs. Spike raised the lantern high, nostrils flaring at the muted stench of centuries-old rot as he gazed around in reluctant awe. He’d seen a lot of bloody amazing things in his time, but there was something about ancient places of power that weighed down on a fellow.

Leave it to Dru to spot a place like this in a vision. God, she was a miracle of evil. No wonder he loved her so.

He pulled himself together, remembering his purpose, the whole reason he was here. The gold would fetch a pretty penny, he supposed -- presuming it wasn’t cursed -- but there was only one thing he needed. He scanned the crypt until he spotted the dessicated corpse lying in state on the central bier. Something gleamed at him from the poor sod’s chest.

Setting the lantern aside, he stroked a finger along the huge green cabochon, smooth as satin under his fingertips. He’d not known what to expect, of course -- the legends were vague -- but he recalled some verse about the Gem of Amara’s emerald gleam, and this had to be the thing. A vampire’s Holy Grail, relegated to funerary trappings for… whatever sad bloke this had been. Not a vampire, he supposed. Unless this was what a vampire looked like after centuries of starving, and the fellow was still technically alive-slash-undead, and Spike didn’t really care one way or another. He just wanted his due.

“It’s real,” he whispered, drinking in the ambiance of his solitary moment of glory.

“Ooh, pretty!”

_Sodding hell._

He turned and glared at Harmony, who had brought her own bloody lantern. She was all poshed up in pink satin -- no drilling for Harmony, of course -- and smiling like she had every right to be there.

“Can I take stuff?” she chirped annoyingly.

_Bloody Brian. _But he had said not to let any of the “fellows” through, and Brian was a literal bastard -- _bloody engineers! _\-- and he was going to kill him later regardless, so in the end he supposed it didn’t bloody matter. “Take whatever you want,” he sighed. “I don’t care.” He could always kill Harmony later, too. At least she hadn’t brought her latest toy.

She flashed a brilliant smile at him and bounced over to kiss him on the cheek. Her lips were cold; he flinched away reflexively, but she didn’t notice, too excited by the promise of trinkets, and Spike gritted his teeth and told himself he hadn’t just wished they were the slayer’s warm lips, because the slayer would hardly be bussing him on the cheek for this day’s work, and he wouldn’t want her to, either, he hated the bitch, and so he gave the green gem another covetous stroke, absolutely not comparing it to any green eyes he could mention, and claimed it, yanking it right off — through — the corpse’s neck, which parted with a satisfying crunch.

“Ew!” Harmony commented from across the room, where she had managed to find a tiara, of all things. “Like you’re too good to work a clasp.”

Yeah, he was definitely going to kill Harmony later. Tomorrow, most likely. He had plans for today.

But first things first. He slung the heavy chain over his head, settling the Gem of Amara on his chest — bloody garish it was; he’d have to see about having it reset later in something that didn’t look like Liberace and Elton John would battle to the death over it. (Though perhaps first he would have Liberace and Elton John battle to the death for his amusement. That would be a bit of all right. He’d have to hire a necromancer or some such to bring Liberace back, but it would be worth it.)

He closed his eyes and waited to feel the Gem’s power coursing through him.

And waited.

And waited.

And waited.

“So is it doing it?” Harmony twittered from behind him. “Do you feel it?”

Spike gritted his teeth, hoping his lack of response would get her to shut it, but no such luck. She nattered on.

“I mean, you don’t look different, if you were wondering. I thought maybe you’d look taller or glow or something.”

He didn’t feel it, was the problem. He didn’t feel a hair different, not even a vague tingle like Buffy’s promise crystal had sent through him. And he didn’t want to face the slayer with a dud immortality gem. It'd be just like Dru, in fact, to lead him on about something like this, yet leave out something crucial. She'd laugh and laugh….

With a glare at Harmony, Spike stalked over to a table littered with odds and ends, where he thought he'd seen -- yes, there, a cross. He grabbed it impatiently, hissing when it sizzled his flesh.

Bugger, bugger, _bugger_. So the Gem was just a myth after all, and he’d driven thousands of miles, called in favors, and tunneled for weeks — not to mention snogging his mortal enemy for some of those weeks! — for the sake of retrieving a piece of bloody costume jewelry.

Bloody Dru and her bloody jokes.

“You should put butter on that,” Harmony interjected, admiring a ring on her finger as she casually dismissed the failure of Spike’s grand plan. “But hey, maybe it’s worth money, anyway. That would be something.”

As she went on yammering about fucking France _again_, Spike was filled with deep and abiding resolution. He’d never been a patient vampire, never been one to put off his pleasures, and here he’d spent weeks doing a slow-burn seduction of the slayer, biding his time like a good lad, and what had it gotten him? Incurably blue balls, a fucking piece of trumpery Elizabeth Taylor would turn up her nose at, and Harmony _still not shutting her gob. _

And he could do something about one of those things right now. Why put off until tomorrow...?

He stalked over to a convenient wooden whatsis, snapped off a sharp piece, and drove it right into Harmony’s heart.

Her big blue eyes stared at him, wounded, and he waited for her to crumble to dust — was taking her sweet time, but some vamps did — but her eyes just got bigger and more teary, and he looked down at her chest, the gaping wound he’d created, and it healed over right before his eyes. She wasn’t dust. She wasn’t even hurt.

And _bugger_, she still wasn’t shutting up!

“I can't believe you just did that!” she squealed, pummeling him ineffectually, and as he gazed at her in befuddlement, he caught a green gleam from one of her flailing hands.

His own hand shot out like a snake and caught it.

A ring, bloody atrocious, golden cutwork forming a crude face over a green gem, except that as he looked at it the green glowed faintly, and he felt somehow absorbed, like he was falling into green....

“Hold on,” his voice said without him, and the sound startled him enough to act again. He fumbled with his free hand for a piece of cloth, wrapping it around the cross and holding it to Harmony’s forehead. Which did not burn. It didn’t even bloody turn pink.

Harmony struggled against his grasp. “What are you doing, you big freak?”

“That's my gem,” Spike said, starting to wrestle it off her finger, because he by god needed it, he’d driven the miles, he’d done the tunnelling, he’d endured the bluest of balls, and the Gem of Amara was rightfully his. It was _his_. His revenge.

“Fine!” Harmony shrieked. “If that's all that matters to you, then take it!” She tugged the ring off and threw it at him; he caught it handily. “Take it and get out!”

Ignoring her ranting, Spike slipped the ring on his finger, and _bugger bugger bugger _he felt it, felt different, felt _alive_, felt power coursing out to his fingertips, and instead of staking Harmony again, now that it would take, he just grinned at her.

“That's a good idea,” he laughed. “I think I'll go play outside.”

_With the slayer._

He leapt down out of the chamber to the scaffold and to the ground, light as a cat, and dashed down the tunnel.

Spike stopped by his chambers to change into his accustomed clothes -- he’d only get to kill the slayer once, he was bloody well going to look good doing it -- and then he was off, striding out of the lair and through the sewers to the access tunnel nearest the slayer’s dorm. The unlocked grate was in full sun this time of morning, and he froze instinctively, his hand inches from the mesh, but he steeled himself and reached out and curled his fingers out through the wire grating into the sunlight.

They didn’t burn and didn’t burn and still didn’t burn, and he set his jaw and yanked the grate open and stepped out into the light.

It was warm, pleasantly so, like Buffy’s soft skin, and he lifted his face to the sun without thought, basking in that warmth like a house cat. That was the worst of being undead - one never quite got properly warm, even on hot summer nights, and he suddenly realized he’d missed the sun, he’d missed it desperately, always flirting with the edges of the day, dancing on the fringes, and now he was there, he was in it, it was his, and he laughed incredulously, opening his eyes, staring straight at the sun, bloody ball of death that it was, feeling his eyes burning and healing all at once.

God, it was glorious. The world opened to him. He could watch the sun rise over the ocean. He could climb a mountain, watch a football match, take a cruise.

He could kill the slayer, with the sunlight shining in her hair.

Glorious.

A quick glance at a nearby clock tower told him it was half past ten, and he thought back to what the slayer had said about her university days, one of the nights she’d been trying to teach him things he should know in case anyone started bloody quizzing him about their relationship. “Buffy 101” she’d called it, with a wry laugh that he’d kissed away, but then she’d told him all about her lectures and other rot. She’d be heading to her History lecture shortly, he determined, after breakfast at her dormitory, which meant she’d be walking along… that path in just a few short minutes.

He found a nice, comfy place to wait, out in the sun but not so much as to be obvious in his black and red, and he waited for his chance to kill her, anticipation coiling in his tangled gut.

And then there she was.

Buffy.

Her hair shone in the sun as she walked beside Willow, laughing at something the Wicca had said, and he watched her hungrily as she strolled down the path and past him without even noticing his presence. Or perhaps she did — she paused on the path for a moment, eyes scanning the shadows, before continuing on, her smile undimmed but her back alert. She didn’t look for him in the sun, of course — another advantage of the Gem, the element of surprise — and he kept his advantage, rolling to his feet and following her at a distance, walking across the sunlit lawn.

She was wearing something silky and blue that draped over her curves like Rodin had sculpted her, like some ancient goddess, and tight black trousers that clung to her thighs, wide cuffs swishing sensually as she walked. Her hair was loose today, the breeze teasing locks across her shoulders, just there where he’d been practicing the bloody “intimate casual caresses” she’d demanded, right where he was going to sink his fangs, her hot blood pumping fast. It was going to be glorious.

Not that he’d start there, oh no. He’d start with a punch to the slayer’s nose, perhaps, or to the gut, send her sprawling, give her time to realize her danger. Perhaps a witty _bon mot _or two, while the gears in her head were turning, and then the battle would be on, and he’d let her win at first, leave opening after opening for her stake until she did it, right to the heart, except his heart was immune now, she couldn’t touch it, couldn’t hurt him. And then they’d have it out, fists and fangs, a brawl to end all brawls, until he finally had her in his grasp, in his power and he’d savor the moment, nuzzling her soft throat before sinking his fangs in and drinking deep, and he had to pause and lean against a tree for a moment to withstand the rush of anticipation that swept through him at the thought.

Buffy parted ways with Red as he watched, smiling and waving and laughing, and then she headed down another path, and he kept on following, watching the shake of her hips and the flip of her hair and the curve of her back, and when she stopped to peruse a bulletin board he stopped, too, eyes riveted on the curve of her lip as she worried at it with her teeth, almost the way he’d nibbled at it last night, just before he slipped his tongue into her mouth’s welcoming warmth, stroking her bare hard nipples, drinking in her gasps of pleasure….

He watched and followed and watched until she went into the hall for her history lecture, finding a convenient sunlit bench to wait out the hour.

He spent the time agreeably imagining her drained corpse draped across the demented sculpture where they’d made their devil’s bargain, but the instant she came back out the lecture hall’s door, he homed in on her again like a compass needle, falling in behind as she strode with purpose towards her next class. Psychology? Or was it bloody Composition? He’d got her shirt off by the time she was talking about her second class of the day and hadn’t really been attending.

She met up with Willow again — no worries, the Wicca wouldn’t get in his way — and he watched them laughing together, hunger roiling in his gut, and then they went into the next hall.

“Just wait, slayer mine,” he announced to the closed door. “Just when you least expect it, there I’ll be. I’m waiting for you… Buffy.”

“Buffy Summers? You a friend of hers?”

Spike turned to regard the hulking wanker who’d come up beside him. “You could say that,” he said evenly, sizing the bastard up. Not one of the Scoobies. Buffy hadn’t mentioned any new boys hanging around. Nobody important, he determined quickly. “And you are?”

The marshmallow man smiled blankly. “Riley. Riley Finn. I, uh, I’m her TA.”

“Pleasure,” Spike said frostily. “I’m her boyfriend.”

“Oh.” The bastard blinked. “I didn’t know she had a boyfriend.”

Spike bared his teeth. “She does.”

“Oh.” Wanker Finn sized Spike up in return, not subtly. “Huh. You know, I always thought she was kind of peculiar.”

Poor sod had it bad already. “Is that so?”

“Oh. Not that she’s… I mean… she just, um, she’s very imaginative. In her papers.”

“Oh, yes. Very… inventive.” Spike replied, laying on the innuendo thick.

The dunce remained oblivious. “Do you need me to, um, bring her a message?”

“Oh, no need to bother,” Spike breezed. “We’ll be seeing each other this evening. As usual.”

The idiot stammered out some sort of acknowledgement, and something more about being late, and then he was gone, and Spike was left staring at the door Buffy had disappeared behind.

He could wait. Wait for her to come out, perhaps lunge out at her from behind a bush, take her down while her Wicca girlfriend watched…. He could do it. He had the Gem. He could kill Buffy.

He turned and walked back the way he’d come.

Tomorrow.

He could kill the slayer tomorrow. Or the next day. Or perhaps he could let it play out as planned. Rub Angel’s nose in things, kill the slayer in front of him. Spike could be patient, if the prize were rich enough. And this prize was the richest of all.

He didn’t hurry, just strode with purpose back to the open grate and through the sewers and back to the lair, and then through the lair until he found Brian snacking on one of the chained-up leftovers.

“Spike!” Brian hastily wiped his mouth. “Did what you said. None of the fellows went into the tunnel.”

“Good job, mate,” Spike said amiably. “Did you happen to mention to any of them that we’d broken through?”

“No, indeed,” Brian said proudly. “Kept it all hush-hush, like you asked.”

“Good.”

Spike reached out and ripped Brian’s head off, watching in satisfaction as his body and severed head crumbled to dust.

“Oh my god! You killed Kenny!”

Spike turned to regard Harmony, standing just a few feet away. “Brian,” he corrected.

“Oh, that was Brian?” Harmony peered closer at the dust. “He looked like Kenny from here. I figured, you know, you’d heard about what Kenny said to me the other night, and… why would you kill Brian?” She blinked in confusion.

Spike smiled, flashing his fangs. “Because he knows I found the Gem of Amara.”

“Well, duh. I know that, too.” Spike felt his grin grow, watching comprehension dawn, slow as treacle. “Oh. Oh my god. Oh my god!”

He strolled closer. “No god here. Just you and me, pet.”

“I won’t tell!” She threw her arms over her head. “I swear I won’t tell anyone!”

“Won’t you?”

“I swear! I swear on, um — on France! I swear on France!”

“Do you, indeed?”

She glared up at him then. “You are so mean! You already staked me once today. Now you’re going to do it again?”

Spike had planned on it, but then he paused. He’d be killing the slayer any day now, wouldn’t he? And him still all randy and unsatisfied. Wouldn’t hurt to have a tumble waiting for him after the deed, a victory shag before he set out on the ten-thousand-mile drive back to Drusilla’s bosom. He could always stake her after.

And he was in a good mood now. Killing Brian had been just fantastic. He hadn’t killed anything at all for weeks, and having death in his hands again, even for another vamp, had suffused him with bliss. He could afford to be magnanimous now. Save Harmony for later. Tomorrow, perhaps.

“You tell anyone, you’ll be dead before the words leave your mouth.”

Her eyes lit up. “Really? You mean it?”

He shrugged. He didn't, not really.

“I knew it!” she crowed. “I knew you loved me!”

Spike watched agog as she practically danced out of the room. Was she utterly deranged? Or so dense she didn't realize her days were numbered, not even double digits?

Ah well. No matter. He could kill her any time he liked. In the meantime, he needed to find a place to hide the Gem of Amara until the time was right. Somewhere Harmony would never look.

After a moment’s thought, he grinned. Yes, that was it. The perfect place.

The last thing Harmony would ever do was _read_.

*

Buffy doodled in the margins of her Psychology notes, swirls and curves and jagged spikes, the shapes of the jitters piling up in her stomach, because she had decided.

Tonight was the night.

She was trying to pay attention, really she was, except… she always looked at Willow's notes after class anyways, because no matter how diligent she was Willow always took better notes that really got to the meat of the lecture, so she might as well just skip the diligence, just for today, and let her butterflies continue what felt like World War III in her gut, and in the meantime she could think about the evening ahead.

It wasn't like she hadn't been doing lots of studying, after all. She'd spent several hours a day reading… informational texts. So what if they weren't for an actual class? Education was a good thing. A really, really, really good thing. And Cordelia's reading list had been just chock-full of information, so much information that Buffy had ended up reading each book twice, just to make sure she hadn't missed anything.

She felt really, thoroughly educated now.

When she'd started, she'd kind of kept up a virtuous shield in her head, a thick pane of shatterproof glass between pure, good Buffy and the carnal details she was reading about and looking at pictures of. After all, she was a warrior for good. She was supposed to live up to all the ideals of goodness, and one of those ideals was that sex was a thing you only did with someone you loved, that girls who had sex with people they didn't love were sluts, or hos, or tramps, or any of a thousand words in the English language that Buffy had always believed she would never be. Even after all her talk with Cordelia about bases and kisses and breasts and stuff, she'd always kept that image of herself in mind. Buffy equals good. Good equals not slutty. That was the math that had been drilled into her head, by her mother and by the world.

And the world had even punished her when it _had_ been with a guy she loved, so that hadn't helped.

She'd been about halfway through the first book when she'd had her first moment of realization. It hadn't been any exact phrase, or diagram, or even chapter. She'd just had a minor epiphany, brought on by the aggregate of it all.

_Maybe it's actually okay to just have sex._

It was one of those things that she'd heard before, even accepted in her head, but somehow it had never connected to _her_. It was okay for guys to _just have sex_ \-- it was practically expected. It was okay for other girls to _just have sex_ \-- Buffy had made it past that judgeyness recently, which had been harder than it should have been. (She probably owed Faith an apology for that -- in addition to the attempted murder, of course -- if she ever woke up.) But the idea that it was okay for Buffy herself to _just have sex_, just because she wanted to… that was new. She could, though. She could have sex with anyone she wanted, as long as they were on the same page as her. As long as they communicated, and consented, and kept on communicating and consenting, everything would be all right.

Cordelia had been telling her that, of course, all this time, but now Buffy kind of believed it.

And the second she believed, the glass window she'd been safely observing everything from behind had just… shattered. And she'd been right there in it, not just reading interesting scholarly facts about sex, from a neutral distance, but actually thinking about _Buffy_ and sex, about actually maybe doing the things she was reading about. It was like the difference between reading about Greece in a travel magazine, and actually swimming in the Mediterranean.

And as soon as she'd thought about diving into those warm waters, she'd also accepted the fact that she wanted to get wet with Spike.

That was harder. That was… well, that was a lot more contrary to "Buffy equals good" than just sex with, say, Parker would have been. But she'd already been dipping her toe in those waters, wading in those shallows -- not to mention sunbathing topless on that beach. They already had an agreement in place which covered the main issue -- Spike's promise crystal had proven every night that he hadn't been feeding on or hurting humans -- and he'd proven that he knew how to get her motor running, and, well… she wanted him.

She wanted Spike.

And she didn't even _like_ him, much less love him.

That had been the hardest realization of all.

But she'd realized it. She'd accepted it. She'd even kind of talked it out with Cordelia, in a probably-transparent roundabout way, and gotten Cordy's _get-busy-with-that-boy-already!_ seal of approval, and now she was ready.

She'd been testing the waters, so to speak, for the past week, trying to urge Spike in the direction she wanted him to go.

Third base. She wanted him to slide on in to third, preferably face-first. She had a feeling he'd be just as good there as he had been on second.

After the revelation that masturbation was really, really awesome, she'd taken Cordy's further advice and picked out a vibrator as well, something small and innocent-looking and, most importantly, waterproof, and that night, after her practice session with Spike, she'd gone straight to the showers and wow. Wow wow wow. Another win for Cordy's advice, that was for sure. And as she'd come down from yet another shattering orgasm, she'd imagined what Spike could do that a vibrator couldn't, imagined Spike's hand between her legs, imagined Spike's _tongue_ between her legs, like the pictures she'd seen in that one book, and… well, it had ended up being a really long shower. She wouldn't be surprised if there was a tuition hike to cover the increased hot water bill from her activities.

The next night, going to practice with Spike -- _make out _with Spike, she should be honest with herself, they'd stopped practicing a long time back -- she'd worn a skirt.

Unfortunately, deciding she wanted Spike's hands and/or mouth up her skirt turned out to be a lot easier than actually _asking_ him to put his hands and/or mouth up her skirt. She'd gotten as far as straddling him, but then insecurity had set in. What if he didn't want to? He'd agreed with her that sex would be disgusting, after all, and as far as she knew Spike didn't have Cordy or anyone like her urging him on. So she'd just… sat there, wanting more but terrified to ask.

The next night, she'd tried being a little less subtle, adding a little grind once she'd gotten in place. Nothing too obvious, just… pulsing. (It was weird, though. She'd heard it called "dry humping" -- which was a really gross term for something that actually felt really good -- but that turned out to be completely inaccurate, because she was anything but dry during and afterwards.) But Spike hadn't said anything, had just done their usual routine of fondling and kissing, and so the next night she'd upped it a bit, and a little more the next night, and the next night, until there wasn’t even any pretense of subtlety, and still not a word from Spike, even when she'd gotten so worked up she'd not even made it back to the dorm, ducking into the ladies' room of the tennis courts to bring herself off in a frenzy of fingers and regrets. For Pete's sake, did he need an engraved invitation?

Did he just need her to make the first move?

Did he need her to actually ask?

She would, except... she didn’t know how.

She'd called Cordy to ask for more advice, but the timing had been bad, based on the harried rant about whammy sticks and creepy hugs and jerks who didn't even notice when a girl got a new pair of shoes, and they couldn't have a one-sided friendship where only Buffy got a listening ear, and so Buffy had listened -- Cordy's job sounded like a real nightmare sometimes, though that might have been all the dramatic metaphor she used to describe it -- and congratulated Cordelia on starting to rebuild her shoe collection and... not asked.

And then she'd realized that she had the perfect opportunity. Halloween.

One of the books had featured a whole chapter about role-playing, and how the use of costumes and props could enliven a couple's love life. And she already knew Spike loved his drama, loved pageantry and play. All she needed to do was wear a Halloween costume that appealed to that playfulness.

Maybe he'd be able to pretend she wasn't the slayer, and he'd want to take things further on his own.

Maybe… maybe wearing a costume would make Buffy feel like a different person. Like a person who could ask for what she wanted.

_Spike, I want you to go down on me._

“Did you just say something?”

Buffy started at Willow’s hushed whisper. Oh, god, had she said that out loud? “Uh, no?”

“Okay.” Willow nudged her. “Walsh is giving you the evil eye.”

“I’m paying attention!” Buffy whispered back, but it was true, Professor Walsh had turned her gimlet glare on Buffy, and so she made a show of writing notes and being super, super attentive for the rest of class, even when Walsh had turned her evil eye on some other hapless student.

Even when Buffy’s mind drifted back to imagining Spike’s response to her costume.

When the lecture was over, Buffy let Willow go on ahead with the promise to meet up later for the Scary House, waiting until Walsh had stalked out of the room before she headed down the stairs, just in case.

She was almost out the door when what’s-his-face the TA spoke up.

“You know, she keeps track of stuff like that.”

“Stuff like what?” Oh god, had it been obvious Buffy was thinking about sex?

“Doodling. Talking in class. She takes points off your participation grade.”

“Oh. I, uh… I’ll work on that.”

“Just a friendly warning. You’ve got to be aware your work’s taken a little downturn lately. I can’t remember the last time I saw your hand up.”

_Staying up until three every night making out with the evil undead does cut into your perk._ “Does stretching count?”

He smiled faintly. “Things get pretty intense freshman year, as I dimly recall. Too much fun? Or not enough?”

Buffy shrugged noncommittally. “I try to stay focused on business.” _As in none of yours._

“But you must have fun plans for tonight. Halloween.”

“Yeah, I…” Oh, why not say it? “I have a date.”

“With your boyfriend.”

What was up with that weird tone of voice? Her boyfriend wasn’t any business of his. Not that she had a boyfriend. Not officially yet. She just had… Spike. “Yeah.”

He looked down at the papers on the desk, straightening the stack. “Well, just keep your priorities. Professor Walsh is worth your time.”

“Oh, I know. I’m keeping up with my studies. Promise.” She hefted her backpack, feeling awkward. “Thanks for the pep talk, coach.”

He looked at her strangely. “Welcome.”

Buffy made her escape then, vaguely annoyed, but once she got out in the sun and headed towards the dorm, her good mood returned, and with it the warring butterflies.

Tonight was the night.

She was going to ask.

She just had to get through the lame Scary House first. Which -- well, Oz said it was cool, and he was usually a pretty good judge, but Buffy spent too much time with actual demons to be scared of rubber facsimiles. Still, she hadn’t been hanging out with her friends much lately, and she didn’t want them suspecting what she was up to until the time was right. And she pretty much always had a good time with the Scoobies, so it would probably be fun enough in the end. Not to mention that, it being Halloween, there'd be no worrying about the slaying duties she’d been shirking, though she planned on checking in briefly with Giles anyhow. Nothing but good times.

Especially after, when she joined Spike at the crypt, wearing the costume she’d picked out just to make him stare. Possibly drool. Maybe she’d even strike him speechless, if that was possible for such a bigmouth. Which was okay. She had better ideas for his mouth than talking, tonight.

_Oh, what a big mouth you have!_

_The better to eat you with, my dear._

She walked a little bit faster.

*

After lighting all the candles -- he’d brought more this time, the better to see Buffy’s perky nipples with -- Spike sat down under the crypt’s window alcove, sighing. The lair had been dripping with pretentious ennui when he’d left, each of the minions trying to outdo the other with how bored they were by the very concept of Halloween, how _déclassé_ the whole thing was, how trite. But Spike had them all in order, all well trained on the traditions of the demon world, and they were all resigned to watching the telly and snacking on the victims they’d stocked up the night before. He’d regretfully slipped out when they were all absorbed in _Nightmare Before Christmas_ \-- he’d stayed for _Great Pumpkin_, of course, since Buffy had said she’d be late due to some bloody party -- and strolled down the streets of Sunnydale, remembering another Halloween past, his little snack-sized demon patrol, the slayer all helpless and weeping…. Though he preferred her the way she’d been lately, feisty and bitchy and ripping her shirt off as soon as he’d got her warmed up a bit.

That was nice, Halloween or no.

He waited, drumming his fingers on the stone floor, until he heard her footsteps outside the crypt and sighed in anticipation._ At long last._

Spike sat up straight as Buffy entered the crypt, dressed in… _bloody hell. _His cock stood up straight as well as he drank in the sight of her. Short red-checked dress. Ruffled white apron. Red hooded cloak. Even her hair was done up different, plaited in twin tails down in front of each shoulder. Oddly, she didn’t look young, despite the little-girl dress -- her legs were too shapely and strong, her face too… knowing.

Since when was the slayer knowing?

“Took you long enough,” he snarled, unaccountably pissed off.

“I told you I had a party,” Buffy sniffed, setting her basket down next to the door. It clinked.

Spike peered at the basket. “What you got in there? Chains?” He could only hope.

She sighed. “Just weapons. Um, not to use,” she said hastily. “They’re part of my costume.”

“Kinky.” He eyed her up and down. “And just who are you supposed to be?”

She twirled, her skirt flaring. “Little Red Riding Hood. What, you didn’t guess?”

Spike supposed he would have, if his cock would just let his brain think. “Fetching.”

She shrugged, holding out the skirt for a little curtsy that showed off even more leg. “I like it.”

He did too, but bugger if he’d say so now. “Suppose we’d better get started. The night’s half gone.” He stood and dug in his pocket, fishing out Buffy’s promise crystal.

Buffy stared at it, eyes wide. “Yeah. I, um… I guess we should. Start. We should start.”

She rummaged in the basket, giving Spike an eyeful of leg as she dug out his crystal, holding it out with trembling hands.

“I swear to thee I have kept my promise,” he muttered, rolling his eyes when the crystal stayed white. “All right, now you.”

She reached out and took the crystal he offered, holding it in her hand like it was a bloody rattlesnake.

“Go on,” Spike grumbled, annoyed at the delay. “Get on with it.”

Buffy held up the crystal to her lips, biting her lip. “I… I swear to thee I have kept my promise,” she whispered quickly.

The crystal turned black.

Spike looked at the darkened crystal for a good ten seconds before the significance made its way into his consciousness and he felt the stab of betrayal. “Bloody hell, Slayer. You--”

“It was a just a little demon!” Buffy babbled. “And I’m really not kidding about that. It was really, really, really tiny.”

“And you… deliberately inconvenienced it?” Spike bared his teeth.

“No, I… um… I squished it.” She folded her arms defiantly. “I stepped on it, okay?”

“On purpose.”

“Yeah. Um, though it was kind of… instinctive. I didn’t think about it until it was all… squished.” She frowned, looking down at her shoes.. “I am never getting that stain out of my Keds, either. I already tried.”

Spike looked down at her little white plimsolls, one of which did still have a faint brownish stain on the canvas. “No, I don’t suppose you are,” he said bitterly.

“Um, it wasn’t on purpose,” Buffy stammered, and Spike listened, half impressed and half annoyed, as she told him about the haunted house, the bats, the zombies, Giles with a chainsaw, and the wee little (regrettably squashed) fear demon.

“I’m sorry,” Buffy whispered when she was done. “I mean, I’m not sorry I squished it, because it was causing some major bad mojo, but… I’m sorry I broke my promise.” She looked miserably off into the corner, arms wrapped around herself.

_Sodding hell. That’s the bloody problem with white hats, _Spike growled inwardly. _Actually bloody caring about their promises, even to evil blokes like me._ He couldn’t think of a single bloody vamp who’d ever cared to keep true to a promise, not to Spike. That was how vamps were. Bloody liars, every one of them, and that’s how he liked it. The only vampire he’d ever cared about being true was Drusilla, and she never really had been. He’d not really ever expected more, and he’d certainly never intended to return the favor.

Except… Buffy being all dejected over lying to him made him feel oddly warm.

He caught himself as he reached out for her, then gritted his teeth and did it anyhow, stroking his hand through her golden hair. “It’s all right, love.”

“No, it’s not all right,” Buffy said stubbornly. “Look at it! It’s black!”

Spike solemnly took the black crystal from her, weighed it in his hand, tossed it and caught it -- and then closed his fist around it, magic jolting through his system like an electrical shock as the crystal shattered into shards.

“Hey!”

“I said it’s all right,” he shrugged, shaking the fragments away from his hand. “Doesn’t bloody matter.”

“But our deal--”

Spike sighed. “I don’t actually care if you kill, hurt, or otherwise inconvenience demons, as long as that demon’s not me."

She narrowed her eyes. “What?”

He waved a negligent hand. “Not like any demon’s ever done Spike a favor. As long as I’m off the hit list, slay away.”

She planted her hands on her hips. “So why did you make me promise all of that? You even bitched about me adding a word!”

“Well, you made me promise the bloody moon!”

“I did not! I just made you promise… what I needed you to promise in order for me to not kill you.” She gestured lamely. “I mean, I do have a sacred duty.”

“And I have an unholy responsibility to my vampiric nature,” Spike pointed out.

“Yeah, but… Angel?” Buffy bit her lip, uncertain.

Spike resisted the urge to nibble on that plush lip himself. “Well, yeah. Angel.”

“I mean, I, um, totally understand if the deal’s off. I can give you, uh, one night to get out of Sunnydale, but then--”

“Deal’s not off,” Spike growled.

“It’s not?” Buffy blinked like a bloody baby owl.

“We can amend our agreement,” Spike conceded, feeling magnanimous as fuck. Also randy as fuck, which was more to the point. He wasn’t done with the slayer’s tits yet. He’d decided that at the university, days ago, watching her in the sunlight. He’d _chosen_ to let her live just a little longer.

He wasn’t bloody done yet.

Buffy gaped at him. “We can?”

Spike shrugged, warming to the idea. “As I said, don’t bloody care what demons you kill, as long as that demon’s not me. I dusted a vampire myself, just the other night.”

“And you’ll still, um, not eat humans?”

“For the moment,” he said graciously. “After all, if Angel smells it on me, he’ll twig to our scheme and all our hard work and practice will have been for naught.”

She looked at him for a long moment. “So I can start patrolling again?”

“I suppose.”

“Oh, thank god!” Buffy sighed gustily. “I was running out of excuses for Giles. A girl can only claim to have so many tests, quizzes, and papers to write." She paused again, chewing on her lip. "So, uh, you’re not afraid I’m going to kill your, um, friends?”

Spike bared his teeth. “Thought you said I didn’t have any friends.”

“No, but… I just said that to be mean. I’m sure you have--”

“I’ll tell my friends to steer clear of you,” he said, feeling warm again.

“Okay.” Buffy rubbed her hands up her arms, biting her lip. “I’ll get another crystal.”

“What?”

“I’ll make you another promise. It’s only fair.”

Oh, she was only being _fair_, was she? The warm feeling vanished. “Since when do you bloody care about being fair to a vampire?”

She planted her hands on her hips, scowling. “Vampire slayer. Duh. It’s not my job to be fair to vampires. I was trying to be fair to _you._”

Spike ignored that almost-olive-branch, because he didn’t bloody want fair, he wanted… something different. “Oh, right. Your job. Like you don’t enjoy killing my kind.”

“I don’t!”

He gave her a significant look. “Pull the other one. Slaying gets you hot.”

“It does not!”

He tapped his nose, and she frowned, uncertain.

“Does it?”

“Slayer, remember that time at your bloody school? You were wearing that short skirt with the flower right over your delicious--”

“I remember!” she interrupted, glaring. “And it wasn’t over my delicious… um, it was a very nice flower!”

He grinned evilly. “Could smell how hot you were. Hot and ripe, just off your monthlies. Didn’t know which you wanted more, to kill me or fuck me.” He’d known which he wanted her to do more, of course.

“Oh my god. You are so gross!”

“But I’m not wrong.”

She huffed out a frustrated sigh. “Whatever, Spike. Let’s just do our practicing and get it over with. I have a test tomorrow. A real one. I didn’t make it up to get out of stuff.”

“Right,” Spike growled, stomping over to sit by the sarcophagus he’d been using as a backrest for their snogging sessions. “Come on. Haven’t bloody got all night.”

Except he did technically have all night. And as Buffy flounced over in her ridiculous little-girl dress, red hooded cloak swirling behind her, he suddenly thought he wouldn’t mind so much if they did spend the rest of the night here. When she got into range, he grabbed her apron and gave it a yank, pulling her down into his lap. She didn’t resist, snuggling up and slipping her arms around his neck.

“Wear this for me?” he murmured into her lips as they started kissing.

“As if!” she sniped, catching his lower lip between her teeth. “I don’t dress up for evil vampires.”

He slid a hand up to cup her breast through the fabric. “Right. Suppose if you had plans for me to be touching these tonight, you’d have worn something with access, not a bloody nun’s habit.”

“There are buttons in the front,” Buffy gasped. “Under the apron. I’m not stupid.”

“Since when?” Spike leaned up and mouthed her nipple through the layers of fabric. “So you’re saying you did wear this for me.”

“Give the man a cigar,” she grinned. “Like it?” She kissed him again, mouth hot. “Does it make you feel like the Big Bad Wolf? ‘Oh, what big eyes you have!’”

“The better to--” Spike slid his hands around Buffy’s back, tugging at the ties of the polka-dotted apron. They didn’t come loose. “Bloody hell. Not making this easy, are you?”

“Oh, too much work for you? I didn’t realize you couldn’t untie a bow. Maybe you need to go back to kindergarten.”

“Took first at bloody Cambridge,” Spike muttered, working his fingers into the knotted ties, and then before Buffy could comment on that unplanned, potentially-embarrassing revelation he kissed her hard, sliding his tongue against hers. She moaned and reciprocated, pressing closer. Finally, he felt the ties loosen; he pulled them free, slipping his hands under the apron bib to find the promised buttons, taking a moment to stroke her hardened nipples through the red gingham.

Buffy arched into his touch, hands going behind her neck to release the apron completely; she tossed it aside just as he was getting the buttons undone, spreading the red checked fabric wide to expose her lacy red bra.

“Wear _this _for me?” he purred, cupping her breasts.

“Like it?” Buffy’s voice was half challenge and half shyness.

Spike traced the scallops arching over her sweet curves, fingertips trembling. “Love it,” he murmured, an unidentifiable twinge spearing through his chest.

Her eyes were dark and she trembled. “Show me,” she whispered, and he growled in response, and then they were kissing again, harder, deeper, as his hands stroked and pinched and plucked at her nipples. Buffy shifted beneath his hands, her lips still sliding frantically against his as she turned and twisted until she was straddling him. He groaned and started to kiss down her throat, her gasps loud in the dusty silence of the crypt.

This had been her secret game lately -- secret in her own mind, at least, though Spike had caught on almost immediately, just from the scent of her. Whether she was too embarrassed or too shy or just too fucking bitchy to ask, she undeniably enjoyed riding the ridge of Spike’s cock, all tucked away in his trousers as it was. The first time she’d just sat there, her heat pressed into him as he’d fondled her breasts, the heady musk of her arousal drifting up between them. The time after that, he’d realized she was grinding into him, ever so slightly, and he’d ground back, just as slightly, not saying a word, just enjoying the subtle pulsing of heat, the way she’d dampened the denim. And it had escalated from there; whether she would admit it or not, she had definitively progressed from her subtle grind to positively humping him every time they “practiced.”

He wondered if she knew he knew. She had to, didn’t she?

He ran his tongue along the edge of the lace cups as he slid his hands inside the dress and around her back to the bra fastening.

“What the hell are you doing?” Buffy giggled.

“Unwrapping my present,” Spike growled, sucking one lace-covered nipple into his mouth.

“Not-- god! Not your present.” She sank her hand into his hair, holding him to her breast.

“Said you wore this for me,” Spike chuckled, swirling his tongue over the rough lace.

“So? I didn’t say you could take it off.” There was a playful edge to her voice.

Spike sucked on her nipple again, hard. “Let me take it off. Want my tongue on your skin.” He licked purposefully once, then again.

Buffy paused, looking at him unreadably, and then smiled. “That’s funny,” she murmured. “I want your tongue on my skin. Take it off.”

“If you say so,” Spike grumbled happily, yanking at the hooks, and then they were loose and he shoved the bra up over her glorious breasts and they were bare to him; he cupped them reverently. “God, you’re beautiful.”

Buffy didn’t reply to that, just arched back as he stroked her. She’d started her grinding, too, little grunts muffled in the back of her throat, and suddenly Spike was through being patient. He tucked up his knees, pressing her back until she was laid out before him like a bloody buffet, her eyes closed in pleasure, and while one hand kept stroking her bare, perfect breasts, the other slid down her stomach and over the short skirt, catching the hem and tugging it up until he could see her pants, white cotton briefs, a darker patch of dampness right where the white fabric met his own dark jeans. She was pulsing against him, her thighs clenching rhythmically.

“Beautiful,” he murmured, and slid his thumb in to rub at that damp spot.

“Oh!” Her eyes flew open and she looked at him, startled, but she didn’t stop her little grind. He would swear she even smiled for a moment, but it was hard to tell, because he was entranced by the way that damp patch was starting to spread.

“Think I haven’t noticed, love?” he whispered, thumb stroking gently. “The way you’ve been rubbing your sweet quim all over me?”

She laughed, low and rough. “So you finally noticed,” she said, her voice sending a rush of lust through him.

“Noticed ages ago, pet,” he growled. “Not a bloody idiot.”

“Coulda fooled me,” she laughed, voice strangely fond.

“Not that I mind,” Spike went on. “Told you your ex’d be able to smell if you weren’t into it.” He took a deep, luxurious breath. “This is just the scent we need for our revenge.”

She tilted her hips, thrusting into his strokes. “Have I ever told you the smelling thing is totally gross?”

“Want me to bring you off?” Spike whispered, his thumb pressing harder. “Can make you feel good, love. Better than you’ve felt in years, I’ll wager.”

Buffy looked at him through her eyelashes. “Can vampires smell when--”

“When you come? Fuck, yeah,” Spike hissed. “Smells bloody fantastic.”

"We promised no… no sex." What was that look in her eyes? Regret? Hatred?

"Won't fuck you," Spike vowed, suppressing a twinge of disappointment. "Keep all zipped up. Just want to bring you off."

“Okay, then,” Buffy said quickly, face resolute. “Do it. I want to smell like we’re… like we’re lovers.”

_We are lovers, _Spike thought savagely, then shook his head. Where had that come from? Of course they weren’t lovers. This was all a bloody game. A game for the sweetest of prizes, slayer’s blood and Angel’s misery. He made himself grin, setting his free hand to Buffy’s sternum and pressing her back against his legs. “Trust me,” he said softly. “You’ll smell perfect when I’m through with you. The perfect revenge."

“I don’t trust you,” Buffy said, just as softly, eyes fixed on him, chest rising and falling in little pants under his hand.

“Even better.” Spike stroked his thumb gently up and down her panties, tenderly opening her folds until he could feel the hard nubbin of her arousal through the fabric. “There you are,” he crooned, running his thumb around in a circle, and again, before settling back into long, tender strokes.

“There I am,” Buffy gasped, tilting her hips to match his strokes. “I guess you found me. Now what are you going to do about it?”

“Gonna make you come harder than you ever imagined,” he whispered, feeling faint at the scent of her, the feel of her heat sliding along his cock as he caressed her.

“Ooh, big talk, big bad,” Buffy said, grinning recklessly, though there was a catch in her voice. “I’ll have you know, I can imagine quite a lot.”

“Can you, now?” Spike twisted his hand to gently catch her clit between two fingers, sliding them back and forth, rubbing the cotton against her tender flesh. “You imagine this?”

“Not specifically,” she gasped, and he kept on, accelerating. She leaned forward, setting her forehead against his, eyes closed, her hot gasps gusting against his lips.

“Is that good, love?” Spike asked, suddenly wild to hear her admit it.

“Yes,” Buffy sighed, and he tilted his chin up to kiss her. “Don’t stop,” she breathed into his mouth.

“What do you need?” he whispered back. “Do you want it harder? Softer?”

“Hmm,” she moaned thoughtfully, eyes opening halfway to regard him. “I think… I want it a little harder.”

“Harder it is,” he growled. “Like that?”

“Yeah.” Buffy’s breath was ragged. “Faster.”

He gave her harder, and he gave her faster, watching her face intently as he worked. She was frowning in concentration at first, but soon her jaw was clenched, tight, urgent grunts escaping from her throat.

“That’s it, love,” he encouraged, feeling her start to tremble beneath his fingertips. “Let it out. Nobody to hear you but me.”

Her eyes popped open, glaring at him wildly, but then he startled a cry out of her throat, and once the silence had been broken, she couldn’t stop, a waterfall of gasps and cries and curses spilling from her lips, and then her thighs convulsed and he felt a gush of wetness through the panties as she came, throbbing and fragrant and perfect. God, she was _perfect_.

“There,” he said smugly as her tremors subsided. “Told you I--”

Her eyes opened again, and she caught at his wrist, holding his fingers to her. “Who said that we were done?”

Something oddly like joy bubbled up inside him. “Not I.”

She tossed her hair defiantly. “Good. Because I want you to--”

“Want more, do you?”

She lay back against his thighs, glaring down her nose at him. “Just saying. I think you can do better.”

Spike growled and shoved his hand right inside her panties. “I’ll show you better,” he countered, fingers sliding in to touch her sweet flesh, all wet and slick with her spendings, and she moaned as his fingers stroked her.

Merciful fuck, she was hot, hot and wet and he couldn't bear not being able to see it, he had to see her, had to watch his fingers on her and--

“How much do you like these pants, love?”

She laughed brokenly. “I’m not wearing pants, dumbass.”

“Underwear.”

“Oh.” She licked her lips. “Why?”

“Want to rip them off you,” he growled fiercely.

She tilted her hips into his fingers, one stroke, two, three, and-- “Okay. Rip them off.”

Bloody hell. He had not been expecting that, but he wasn't about to argue. “Right.” Spike gripped the front of her briefs and yanked hard; they parted at the seams, shredding off her pert bottom.

“Spike!” She was laughing, though, and her laughter hitched dangerously when he groaned and set both his hands to her thighs, pushing them wide. She was watching him, her eyes dark as the night, and then she smiled and leaned back, reaching down to tangle her fingers with his, helping him press her thighs open.

He swore softly.

"Like what you see?" Her voice was barely a whisper, drenched in passion.

"Yeah," he managed hoarsely. God, she was pink and swollen and glistening and he needed to touch her, needed it desperately. He slid both hands in towards her center, leaving her fingers digging into her own thighs, and he steadily pressed down on her clit with one thumb while the fingers of his other hand slid back in her wetness, probing, until he could slide his middle finger deep inside.

"Oh!" She closed her eyes, biting her lower lip.

He slid it out, then back in, adding a second finger. On the outstroke this time he dragged his wet fingers up to join his thumb at her clit, rubbing tenderly. In again, deep as he could at the awkward angle. Out. In. God, she was drenched, they both were, and she was on her knees now, thrusting against his fingers with every stroke, making the most amazing kittenish growls and “Oh!” she gasped, and “Yes!” she hissed, and then she was coming apart again, too soon, too soon, he could have gone on forever, and so he didn’t let up, relentlessly driving his fingers into her and rubbing her clit faster and harder until her whole body was rigid with the force of her ecstasy, then pressing his fingers into her as she relaxed, feeling her flesh throbbing with aftershocks, dizzily aware that his trousers were soaked with her spendings, and that his cock was screaming for attention behind his zipper.

Looking at the bemused passion on her face filled him with recklessness, and before he could think better of it, he flung himself into the abyss.

“Do you know what, love?” he whispered, his voice hoarse. “Been thinking it’s not fair, the way you got off scot-free when you broke our agreement.”

Buffy frowned, eyes opening to glare at him, still unfocused. “What? You said it was totally okay.”

“I said we could amend our agreement, true,” Spike said smoothly, fingers still stroking her, though soothingly now. “But the fact remains that you broke it. You killed a demon. Whereas I, despite simply loads of temptation, haven’t bitten even one human.”

“Get to the point, Spike,” Buffy grumbled.

“I do believe you owe me a forfeit.”

Buffy’s eyes flew open wide. “No biting!”

“Wasn’t going to suggest that at all,” Spike said in an injured tone of voice. “No, I had something completely different in mind.” He stroked his fingers purposefully along her dripping quim. “Let me have a taste of this.”

“You… you want to… taste?” Buffy’s breath quickened. “You really want it?”

“Yeah.” Bloody hell, hadn’t she ever…? Spike hastened to sweeten the pot. “Would drive Angel mad, smelling you on my breath.”

Buffy’s teeth sank into her lower lip. “I just bet it would.”

“It absolutely would. Wanker might try to stake me, even. Seeing as he himself never--”

She tossed her hair. “Hey, I never said--”

“Don’t need to, pet. Can tell.” He stroked again, slowly. “Never had a man’s tongue here.”

“And who says I want _your _tongue there?”

“Let me taste.”

“Why?” She was smiling again, a siren’s smile, a slayer’s smile, and he wanted to fall to his knees before it.

“I want to taste you. Please.” Spike set both his hands to her thighs, stroking out to her knees and back. “Want to feel you come on my tongue.”

“G--” Buffy’s voice cut off as his thumbs came back to her center -- whether she’d been planning to favor him with her so-eloquent signature “Gross!” or not was irrelevant.

“Let me,” he coaxed.

Her eyes drifted shut again. “No biting,” she said firmly.

“No biting,” he agreed.

“But I’m not just letting you,” she said softly. “I want you to.”

His heart almost started. “What?”

Her eyes opened, clear and resolute. “I want you to. When I came here tonight, I wanted you to… to lick me.” She flapped the fabric of her skirt at him. “Why do you think I wore this?”

“Bloody hell,” he murmured, awe stabbing at him.

“I want it,” she said fiercely. “I want to try it.”

Spike’s throat closed, words lost, and he caught her up in his arms, rolling to his feet.

Her legs wrapped around him instinctively. “Hey!”

“Just getting a good angle,” he said briskly, like it was all business, like the thought of tasting her wasn’t making his knees weak. Like he hadn’t practically dusted spontaneously at her admission. Her pulse pounded in his ears like a drumbeat in time with his thoughts -- _she wants this she wants me she wants me she wants me_ \-- and he laid her down on top of the sarcophagus, arms shielding her from the stone until she was where he wanted her, her red cloak spread out like an altar cloth, and he didn't wait on ceremony, just bent down and took a long lick, all along her sweet quim. She tasted of salt and vinegar, of honey and spice, the sea and the sky and the earth, and he lapped at her like she was an oasis and he dying of thirst, because he was, he’d not even known it but he’d been parched for her, dying for want of her, and he drank her down greedily.

She clutched at his head. "Oh god," she moaned, tilting her pelvis to meet the strokes of his tongue. "That's-- oh, _god._ Don't stop."

"Not bloody going to stop," Spike growled between licks. "You've been a naughty slayer. Not going to stop until you've learned your lesson." He took a few greedy, sucking kisses up her thigh and back.

"There's a lesson?" she laughed brokenly.

He wrapped his lips tenderly around her clit and sucked. "This," he whispered into her cunt. "This is the lesson."

"More," she growled, low and urgent. "Teach me more."

He scooped his hands under her ass and gave her more, long broad strokes of his tongue until she was quivering, then quick hard flicks to the maddeningly-hard nubbin of her clit, and then, fuck it, he brought his fingers into play, fucking her steadily with them as he licked and sucked and nibbled, exploring and playing and finding what made her shiver, except no, he was through playing, he couldn’t back away and she was shouting now, pounding on his back, her hands shaking as they fumbled with his hair, and oh yes, there, he could feel her release building, he could taste it, tangy and rich and glorious, and he shoved his fingers deep and pressed his tongue down hard and caught one of her flailing hands in his free one, her grip almost crushing bone as she keened out her release.

She collapsed onto the stone, thighs still twitching with aftershocks, as Spike tenderly licked her clean, wiping his chin on her ridiculous gingham skirt before scooting up to lie beside her on the sarcophagus. She shifted to make room for him, face oddly serious.

"Hi," she said shyly.

"Hullo." He arranged one of her plaits over her collarbone, stroked her shoulder, her bare breast still peeking out under her unfastened bra, the little V of exposed belly.

She butted her forehead against his chin. "That was, um, it was something."

He cocked an eyebrow. "That's all?"

She rolled her eyes. "Something awesome."

He shifted onto his back, tucking her up against him. "Told you."

He was feeling smug until her thigh slid up to rub against his cock, which was desperately hard behind his zip.

“You did tell me,” she said softly.

And then her hand slid down and rubbed along his length through the denim, one long, luxurious stroke. He bit out a curse word, hips thrusting instinctively into the caress.

“So tell me. How does this feel?”

Her eyes were on his, serious again, though that wicked smile was teasing at her lips, and he answered her with a kiss, hard and tender at the same time, and she deepened it, sliding her tongue in to meet his just as her fingers glided back up his cock and popped the button of his trousers.

“Let me?” she whispered against his lips, laughter trembling in her chest, and he laughed back, incredulous, as she slowly unzipped him, and then her warm hand was curling around him -- oh god, so warm, her strong fingers! -- and his laughter turned to a groan.

“Yeah,” he managed through a throat suddenly tight. “Take… take whatever you want.”

She looked down his body, propping herself up on her elbow, and oh god, there it was, that curious look, curious and determined, and then she took her fingers and traced around the end, catching the bead of moisture at the tip, spreading it out over the head, and then she wrapped her fingers around him and gave a tentative pump, all the way from the tip to the base, startling a curse from his lips even as his eyes were riveted on her face, the look of focus, her pink tongue slipping out of the corner of her mouth in concentration, and he let his hands caress her, stroking her hair and her face as she slid her fist back up to the tip.

“You didn’t answer,” she said suddenly, turning her face back to his as she pumped again.

“There was a question?” he gasped.

She rolled her eyes. “How does this feel?” she repeated, in a hard voice, a slayer’s voice, and damned if his cock didn’t jump at the sound.

“Bloody fantastic. _Bugger._”

“Good,” she whispered, something soft behind her eyes, and then she looked down again, watching her hand move on him. “I’ve never done this before. I didn’t know….” She pumped again and then ran her thumb over the fresh moisture at the tip. “You’re not dry either. Why do they call it dry humping?”

Bloody hell, was she trying to kill him? He slipped his hand back up under her skirt; she gasped as he probed. “Be wetter if I were inside you. Yeah?” He started to stroke, hissing at how wet she already was.

“Okay,” she said faintly, hand moving faster on him. “That… that makes sense.” She swallowed and looked at him. “But we agreed… not that.”

He glared at her. “That we did.”

“But this.” Buffy looked down at her hand, a faint frown between her eyebrows. “This is okay, right?”

“Better than bloody okay.” And Spike slid his fingers inside her again, because if they weren’t going to fuck for whatever insane reason she had in her noggin, he was bloody well going to have this, and she whimpered and hiked her leg up to give him better access, and he thrust his fingers in and out, in and out, until they were drenched with her juices, and then he dragged his wet fingers back over to his cock, swirling them around the head and then taking her hand, wrapping it around the wetness, and _see, wet,_ he growled, and a little choked sound came out of her throat but she pumped him harder and faster, rubbing her own arousal into him, and he looked at her face again, the concentration, the intensity, and the tip of her tongue poked out of the corner of her mouth again and he swore a blue streak as he came, spilling onto his own belly.

Buffy squeaked, watching in clear fascination, and staring at her face was like staring at the sun, his eyes burning and healing at the same time, and he rolled over her, kissing her deep, his hand back in her cunt, fingers strumming on her clit until she broke again, her thighs clamping around his fingers as she throbbed and spent, and he savored the pulsing, tilting up to kiss her forehead.

“You were right,” Buffy whispered at last, nuzzling into this shoulder.

“About what?” Spike couldn’t think of a word he’d said.

“That was definitely wet.”

He laughed then, surprised, and she laughed too, and he snuggled her back into his shoulder, stroking her warm, sweaty skin. Buffy splayed her hand out on his chest, playing with his nipples again.

“So, um, do we smell like lovers now?”

“Yeah,” he sighed heavily, sated. “We smell like lovers.”

“Good. I think, um… I think that’s good.”

“All right then.” He kissed her hair, just at the part.

"And I think…" Buffy's voice trailed off, and she traced aimless patterns on his chest for a moment before continuing. "I think we're ready."

"Ready?" Ready to fuck? Spike had been ready for that since the day Buffy had shoved him up against a wall and presented her ridiculous proposition. He was already getting hard again, he could do it in--

"Ready to stop practicing," Buffy said softly, cutting his thoughts off.

His hand froze mid-caress. "Stop."

She ducked up and gave him a swift, hard kiss. "No, not stop. I don't… I don't want to _stop_ stop. I want… I want more." She grinned sheepishly. "Especially, more of that last bit. Because wow."

Spike relaxed. "Yeah," he whispered. "Wow."

Buffy traced another shape on his chest. "I just think it's time to start phase two." She smiled. "What do you think, Spike? Are you ready for our first date?"


	7. Chapter 7

Spike knocked on the door of Room 214, glaring defiance at passing students as he adjusted his duster over his shoulders. Bloody wankers didn’t have to stare at a fellow when he came to call. He’d drain them all dry, if it weren’t for his promise to Buffy, and right now he wasn’t sure even that was a good enough reason.

He was pissed off, and he couldn’t figure out why.

He should have been thrilled that Buffy was ready to put their plan into action. He’d got the Gem of Amara, so there was no further need for delay, and he craved the slayer’s death with a sharpness he hadn’t felt since he’d first dug himself out of his own grave, famished, starving for blood.

Drusilla had given him that first meal, and she’d given him this one as well, and he should be bloody ecstatic that it was almost time to tuck in, but instead he was infuriated. Whether it was the prospect of losing the taste of Buffy’s ecstasy, just when he’d discovered it, or the thought that she was still thinking about bloody Angel after he’d brought her off spectacularly, or just the slayer’s very existence, he’d been fuming since she’d proposed they debut their little passion play, there in the crypt, them both still damp and sticky from their latest “practice session.”

He’d not let on, of course — hadn’t even really sussed it out for himself until they’d been done, if he were honest. At the time, he’d just felt… hot. Hot and urgent, and so he’d rolled her onto her back again and played with her swollen cunt while she’d laid out the plan.

“We need to be seen in public — oh god, right there — having a totally romantic date.”

“Define romantic,” he’d growled, fingers busily stroking.

“Laughing, and talking,” she’d gasped. “Intimate caresses.”

“Like this?”

“Not that intimate!” She tilted her hips into his hand. “I mean, yes, now, but not in public.”

“Mmm.” He slid a finger inside her; she clenched needily around him. “So you’re thinking the Bronze?”

“No,” she said, voice shaking though she was clearly trying to stay focused while he was sliding his finger in and out. “If we go there, we’ll have to sit with the gang. I’m not ready for that yet. We need to go somewhere we’ll definitely be seen, but we can also be alone.” She pumped her hips, driving his finger deeper, and gasped. “Xander!”

“Xander’s not down here,” Spike muttered.

“No, Xander works at a bar. He got a fake ID so he could be bartender. We can go there. He’ll see us, but he won’t be able to hang out with us, because he’ll be working.”

“Lovely.”

“So you can meet me at my dorm at… what time is sunset?”

“Little before five.” Spike spread her thighs wider so he could just look at her as he touched her. God, she was perfect.

“That’s too early. How about six?”

“That’ll do.” He set his thumb to her clit, rubbing it firmly.

“Tomorrow?” she moaned, quivering.

“All right.”

“Okay then. It’s a date.” Buffy heaved up on her elbows, looking at him with half-crazed eyes. “Spike, can I ask you something?”

“Not about to play bloody twenty questions now.” He rubbed faster, grinning at the way her thighs were starting to tremble.

“It’s not — god — that kind of question. It’s a request.”

“Fire away, love.”

“Promise you won’t laugh?”

“Promise,” Spike lied. He’d laugh if he bloody well wanted to.

“Um, Spike?” Buffy bit her lip. “Will you, uh, will you… lick me again?”

He blinked, eyes darting up to her face. “Pardon?”

She pushed up further, face determined. “Spike, I want you to go down on me. Again.” She reached out and touched his face. “Please?”

And, well, that had been the end of the date planning.

Except Spike had still been pissed off. Even as he’d devoured her again, eyes rolling back in his head from the flavor, even as she’d clutched at his head and moaned his name and responded to his dirty talk with words he hadn’t even expected her to know and then, after she’d come gloriously on his tongue, tugged him up for a carnal kiss and a shy thank-you, he’d been unaccountably angry behind it all. Despite the fact that he was getting exactly what he wanted.

It didn’t bloody make sense.

But here he was at her door, with a bouquet of red roses he’d nicked from the grocer (the long skirts of his beloved duster were eminently useful at times), trying to look besotted instead of homicidal, despite the fact that he’d knocked a whole bloody ten seconds ago and she still hadn’t opened the door.

God, he hated her.

The door opened then, though, revealing Buffy in a fluffy red skirt and black silk blouse, hair loose about her shoulders. She was bloody gorgeous, and Spike felt his irritation melting away in a wash of lust.

“Yeah?” She blinked at him for a moment in confusion. “Oh. I… I thought you were going to meet me downstairs.”

Spike grinned evilly. “Of course I’m coming to your door, love. I’m a gentleman.”

Buffy rolled her eyes and looked about to argue, but her eyes flickered over his shoulder at another passerby, and her skeptical expression shifted to a beatific smile. “I know you are, darling. I’m so sorry to keep you waiting, but I’m not quite ready yet.”

“I brought you flowers,” Spike said fervently, holding them out with a courtly bow.

“Gosh, thanks.” She hesitated, then set her jaw. “Come on in.”

“Mmm. I was so hoping you’d invite me in,” he purred, stepping forward. She shooed him inside and closed the door behind him.

“Willow can do a disinvite spell,” she said shortly, tossing the flowers onto one of the beds. “So don’t get all cocky. I’ll be ready in a sec.”

“Cocky? Me? Perish the thought.” Spike strolled around the room, running his fingertips over the edges of the furniture.

“I _know _I said six o’clock.” Buffy glared at him over her shoulder as she brushed her hair. Her blouse had no back, just some flimsy strings holding it together.

“It’s almost six.”

“It’s barely past five thirty!”

“Closer to six than to five,” Spike argued.

She rolled her eyes. “Well, you’re just going to have to wait while I finish getting ready, then.”

Spike tsked. “A bit grumpy today, Slayer.” He sat down on the bed she’d tossed the flowers on, breathing deep. It smelled like Buffy.

Buffy glared at him again. “I don’t like being rushed.”

“No need to hurry, love,” Spike drawled, laying down sideways across the foot of the bed and propping himself up on his elbow. “Wouldn’t mind lingering here a bit.”

“What, so you can get boot prints all over my comforter?”

He tilted his head to see more of her legs beneath the short skirt. “Could bring you off again before we go.”

“What?” Buffy spun around, eyes wide. “We’re supposed to be going out, not staying in!”

Spike sniffed delicately. “You like my idea. Admit it.”

She flushed. “I’m not saying I don’t…. I wouldn’t want…. We have to stick to our plan!”

He traced the shape of her quim on the comforter, affecting a pout. “But I’m so very early.”

She turned back to her mirror, putting on some mascara with gratifyingly-shaky fingers. “You are so very an asshole.”

Spike rolled onto his back, picking up the roses. “Should get these in water, love. Got a vase?”

“Yes, I always keep a fine assortment of Waterford crystal here in my dorm room,” Buffy snipped back.

He pouted again, enjoying himself. “And here I brought you a token of my undying affection….”

She turned all the way around to glare at him this time. “There’s an empty laundry detergent bottle in the recycling bin. If you cut off the top, it can be a vase. There’s scissors in my drawer.”

Spike grumbled and rolled over further, rummaging in Buffy’s drawer for the scissors, and finding— “What’s this, love?”

Buffy squeaked when she saw what he was holding up. “Put that back!”

He inhaled deeply. “Rather put it to use.” God, it smelled like she’d been putting it to _regular_ use. Thinking about him?

“Put! It! Back!” Buffy stomped over and snatched the vibrator out of his hands, shoving it to the back of the drawer and grabbing the scissors. She slammed the drawer shut and handed him the scissors, handles first. “You brought the stupid flowers, you make the stupid vase.” She stormed back over to her mirror, picking up her makeup brushes again.

Spike debated fetching the vibrator again -- he’d be happy to add it to their repertoire of “intimate caresses” -- but he sensed he might be treading a bit too close to immediate-staking territory, so instead he grinned and retrieved the detergent bottle in question. It had been rinsed scrupulously clean — bloody white hats! — but still smelled faintly of Buffy’s clothes. He cut a scalloped edge for the makeshift vase, covertly watching Buffy as she finished her toilette. “Red and black today,” he said conversationally, considering just taking the scissors and snipping the strings to get her naked now. But no, that was another dusty path. Such a touchy soul, his slayer!

Buffy rolled her eyes again — he could see them in the mirror. “We’re trying for coupleyness. I thought matching would be a nice touch. I knew what you’d be wearing, because it’s what you always wear.”

“It is not!”

“You must have, like, fifty of those red shirts!”

“I do own other colors,” he pointed out, affronted.

She laughed. “What, scarlet? Crimson?”

“Blue! I have a blue shirt.” He ripped the cellophane off the roses, settling them into his yellow plastic creation.

Somehow her eyes managed to find his in the mirror that didn’t reflect him. “Do you ever wear it?”

“When I feel like it,” he grumbled. He just hadn’t felt like wearing blue for a decade or two. Nothing wrong with that.

“So, what? In 1960?”

“Ha bloody ha.” Spike spotted a bag of weapons poking out from under the bed; he rummaged in it until he found a knife, pulling out a few blooms to trim the stems. “Got water?”

Buffy shifted to the side so he could see the sink under the mirror. “Help yourself.”

Spike slid up next to her, making sure to get his body right up against hers. “Ta.” He filled the makeshift vase halfway.

She glanced at him sidelong, biting her lip. “Thank you for the flowers.”

“You already did that.”

“That was fake thanks. This is real thanks. They’re pretty.”

Spike shrugged. “Know how to treat my lady. Where do you want them?”

Buffy shrugged back. “Wherever is fine.” She glanced at him shyly. “Maybe... on the table over there?"

He shoved the framed photos aside to make room for the roses, arranging the blooms just right. After studying the effect, he rolled his eyes and rearranged the photos around the vase so it all looked proper again, reassuring himself that he wasn't being kind, just playing a very thorough, deep game. The witch might suspect something otherwise.

He turned back to see Buffy checking the contents of a little white beaded purse; she zipped it shut and slung the strap diagonally over her shoulder. It went right between her breasts, molding the fabric of her blouse close to her skin, which made it obvious to Spike that she had gone without a bra, which made it obvious to Spike that he had to touch her breasts, so he did, walking over and rubbing the heavy silk into her nipples.

She leaned back against the sink, eyes fluttering closed. "Spike, we have a plan. We have to go."

"Think you need to come first," he purred, sliding one hand down to the hem of her skirt.

She caught at his hand. "After," she whispered shakily. "You can make me… after the date."

He leaned in to her ear, feeling her breath hitching. "Can't say it? You said all sorts of naughty things last night."

She swallowed, but tugged him down so her lips were brushing his earlobe. "After the date, I want you to… to make me come." She laughed softly. "It's easier to say it there, in the crypt."

He kissed the pulse in her throat. "All right then."

She turned her face to his and he groaned and kissed her, long and lavish, his hands clutching the sink on either side of her hips, and when he drew back she smiled up at him impishly.

"I didn't wear any lipstick," she said.

Spike raised his eyebrows. "Bully for you?" Her lips looked pink enough now that he'd kissed her.

"No, um… because it comes off. On you."

"Wouldn't care, love."

She rolled her eyes. "Look, it's just a sign to everyone watching. I have perfect makeup but no lipstick. Ergo, I intend to kiss my date tonight. A lot."

Spike wanted to ask what the secret makeup code was for "I intend to fuck my date tonight. A lot." but she was already turning and heading for the door, grabbing a leather blazer, and he stalked after her, catching up her hand as soon as she'd locked the door behind them.

She smiled up at him, brilliant as the sun, and even knowing it was all part of their little play, it warmed him.

*

“Put your arm around me!” Buffy hissed as they waited for the bouncer to check her fake ID. “The door’s wide open.”

Spike shrugged and draped his arm around her shoulders. “Can put on a real show, if you think the wanker’s watching.”

Buffy gave him a determinedly-bright teeth-clenched smile. “A, I don’t know what you mean by a _real show_. B, I have a sneaking suspicion I _do_ know what you mean by a _real show_, and we are not doing that in public, duh. And C, it doesn’t matter if Xander’s watching, because we have to make sure everyone sees how coupley we are. I don’t put it past Xander to start interrogating the witnesses.” She frowned absently. “D, what’s a wanker?”

“Literally or figuratively?” Spike’s grin was everything evil.

Buffy rolled her eyes, turning her back to the open door, just in case. “Never mind. Obviously it’s something gross. Don’t call my friends gross names.”

Spike seemed about to retort, but it was their turn for ID check, and Buffy turned her biggest smile on the bouncer, hoping he didn’t look too close at her ID.

He obviously was either actually blind or had been told to turn a blind eye to underage college students, because he waved her on and turned to Spike. “ID?”

“You don’t need to see my ID,” Spike said in a low voice, his back to Buffy.

The bouncer paled. “I don’t need to see your ID. Move along.”

Spike fell in next to Buffy, swagger in his step as they entered the pub.

Buffy glanced back at the white-faced bouncer. “Did you just Jedi-mind-trick that guy into letting you in?”

“Perish the thought,” Spike said easily. “I merely suggested that he didn’t want to know me any better.”

Buffy stopped and turned to him. “You totally just vamped out at that guy, didn’t you?”

“Hush, love. Xander’s watching,” Spike murmured, knuckling her chin up for a light kiss. “Not like the government issues passports and visas to my kind. Have to get about one way or another.”

Buffy couldn’t argue with that, but she glared at him anyhow. “You have to be nice to people when you’re on a date with me.”

He grinned. “Oh, my plan is to be very, very nice to you.”

“Not just me. Everyone. Peace on Earth, good will to all.” It was warm inside the pub; she slipped her blazer off.

“Sounds bloody dull.”

"Too _bloody_ bad."

"God, your accent is atrocious." He kissed her hard.

"Oh, you're mysteriously turned on by fake accents? _Pip-pip! Cheerio!_"

He kissed her again. "It's punishment for the insult to Brits everywhere. Also, you expect me to be nice to everyone? Even Xander?"

"Especially Xander," she whispered against his lips. "Speaking of which, has he spotted us?"

Spike slid up to nuzzle Buffy's temple. "Dunno. Does his mouth usually hang open like he's trying to catch flies?"

She giggled. "No. Well, yes, because he spends a lot of his time in a state of shock. Any tables free in his field of vision?" She jabbed him in the side. "No vamping out to get us one."

"You wound me, Slayer. Plenty of bloody tables. The night's barely started." He slung his arm around her and slanted a glance downwards. "And I mean that _wounding_ bit literally. Feel a bruise starting up."

"Oh, don't be a baby. I didn't break any ribs."

"But my poor, poor spleen…." He pouted -- which was something she hadn't realized he could do before tonight, and also something she hadn't realized would be ridiculously sexy on his face. She distracted herself by looking for Xander herself. Sure enough, he was gaping at them, eyes the size of saucers, while he poured some probably-expensive alcohol all over the bar. She gave him a brilliant smile and waved as Spike guided her to a table up against the wall. He pulled out her chair for her, which made her blink, but okay, yeah, part of the show, and so she smiled and let him scoot her in, handing him her blazer to hang on the chair back.

He kissed the top of her head and trailed his hand across her shoulders, the exposed bare skin above the strings holding her blouse on, and she shivered. She’d thought the blouse was a good idea at the time, black for Spike and silk because it felt nice and sexy back because… because she’d thought Spike might like that, too, and who was she kidding? The blouse had been a great idea. Spike was looking at her like he wanted to rip it off her, and some guys drinking beer at a corner booth were looking like they wanted to challenge Spike for the opportunity to rip it off her, like cavemen, and Xander was looking at her like he wanted to make her go put a burka on, and all together she felt sexy and powerful.

Especially since she knew she was going to let -- possibly make -- Spike untie her strings later.

Spike slid into the chair across from her and set his hand on the table; Buffy gave him her most melting smile -- face angled so Xander could see -- and took Spike’s hand, giving it a squeeze.

He squeezed back. “Now what?”

“Um, you should buy me a drink.”

Spike lifted his free hand to signal the waitress. “What’s your poison? Mojito? Fuzzy Navel?” He raised his eyebrows. “Slippery Nipple?”

Buffy barely managed to keep from rolling her eyes. “That’s a drink?”

“It is, but happy to make it literal, if you prefer.” He curled his tongue meaningfully.

“Diet Coke,” Buffy said firmly. Well, shakily, but her intent was firm. Or kind of firm. She managed to resist, was the point.

“Want bourbon in that? Rum?”

“Just Diet Coke.”

Spike shrugged and ordered for them both, her Diet Coke and his Johnny Walker Black, and the waitress took the crumpled twenty he proffered and strolled off. Buffy glared at her as she left -- or not at her, but at the money in her hand.

“Was that stolen?”

Spike looked around. “Dunno. You think our waitress lifted that skirt?” He squeezed her hand again. “Smile, you’re on Candid Camera.” He subtly jerked his head towards Xander, who had moved on to vigorously wiping the bar, still gaping at them.

Buffy batted her eyes at him adoringly. “No, the money. The money you gave her.”

He raised their joined hands to his lips, tenderly kissing her knuckle. “Course not.”

She looked down shyly, as if he had offered her a compliment. “Why do I not believe you?”

He kissed the next knuckle down. “Because I’m evil?”

“Bingo!” Buffy looked back up at him. His eyes were hot, his lips still moving along her hand. She shivered again.

“It’s not stolen.” He looked down at her hand, like he was debating something, then set their hands back on the table.

“Then where did you get it? Did you start working at Burger King?”

He sniffed. “Buried treasure.”

“You are such a liar!”

His eyes narrowed. “Not lying. Found an old crypt with some gold doodads, fenced the lot.”

“I am not sure grave robbing is better than live-person robbing.”

He shrugged again. “Vampire.” He leaned closer. “Now stop looking like you want to stake me. Your mate’s on his way over.”

Buffy flickered a glance to the side, and sure enough, Xander was walking across the dance floor, dodging dancers. “Dammit. Tell me a joke so I can laugh.”

He grinned. “What’s hairy on the outside, wet on the inside, something I just love to eat, that starts with a C and ends with a T?”

Buffy opened and closed her mouth, not wanting to answer.

He lifted her hand and kissed it gently. “A coconut.”

She laughed despite herself. “You like coconut?”

“Mmhmm. Piña coladas and getting caught in the rain.” He leaned closer, voice low. “Of course, what I’d like best is pouring a piña colada over your delicious cunt and licking it off drop by drop, until you come over and over again-- Why, hullo!”

Buffy blinked dizzily up at Xander, who had arrived at their table bearing their drinks. She managed a bright smile, squeezing her legs together tight to stop the shivering. “Oh, hi, Xander! How’s the new job treating you? Lighting lots of cigarettes?”

Xander smiled nervously. “Yeah, just, um… surprised to see you here. With Spike.” He set the drinks down on the table, wiping his hands on his bistro apron.

“Oh, didn’t you know?” Buffy looked adoringly at Spike, who looked adoringly back. “I guess it was kind of sudden.”

Xander nodded like he was bobbing for words in the apple barrel. “The... mental breakdown?”

Buffy ignored that. “Have you two actually met? Like in person?”

Xander glared at Spike. “He hit me on the head, kidnapped me, and locked me up at the burned-out factory. Good times.”

Whoops. Buffy went on with a smile. “Oh, so you haven’t been actually introduced. Xander, meet Spike. Spike, this is my good friend Xander.”

“Charmed,” Spike said smoothly, holding out his free hand. “Sorry about the noggin, mate. Nothing personal, just business. Things are different now, of course.”

Xander hesitated, then shook Spike’s hand cautiously. “Because... we’re in Bizarro-world?”

Spike smiled his evil, evil smile. "Well, can hardly be assaulting my lady's good friends, now, can I?" He turned a killing look on Buffy. "Not if I want to get--"

Buffy squeezed Spike’s hand warningly, interrupting. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner. It’s just, well… sometimes things happen.”

“Yes,” Xander said with forced heartiness. “Sometimes things do happen. So what was it this time? Lost bet? Blackmail? Spell gone awry?” He smiled carefully at Spike. “Been through that one myself. You’d think I would have enjoyed it, having lots of girls after me, but it pretty much sucked.”

“Oh, Xander, don’t be silly. It’s not a spell or anything like that.” Buffy looked bashfully at Spike. “Sometimes it just happens. You meet someone’s eyes, and… you just _know._ You know?”

“It's not so unusual,” Spike added. “Two people, in the workplace, feelings develop….”

Xander's eyes got even bigger. "Feelings develop? In the killing fields?"

“See, this is why I didn’t tell you sooner,” Buffy said sadly. “I knew you were going to get all judgey. Now you’ll probably tell Giles, or Angel…. They’ll try to stop me for sure, just when I’ve finally managed to move on and find something beautiful. It’s just not fair.”

Xander held his hands up defensively. “I’m not judging, I’m just… surprised.”

“Imagine _my _surprise, mate,” Spike interjected, lifting Buffy’s hand to his lips for another set of kisses. “Here I thought I’d been wanting to kill her all this time. Turned out I wanted something much… much… different.” He bit his lip, looking at Buffy through his eyelashes. “Remember that night behind the gazebo?”

Buffy sighed. “Oh, yes. I remember.”

Xander’s mouth opened and closed a few times.

“Harris! Get back to work!” Buffy looked past Xander to see a bald guy glaring at them from behind the bar.

“I have to get back to work,” Xander said inanely, sticking his hand in his pocket and rummaging around. He held out his hand for Buffy to shake. She looked at it for a few seconds -- because why the hell would Xander want to shake her hand? -- but when he nodded furiously and kept holding his hand out, she sighed and shook his hand.

Xander slipped her a piece of folded paper.

“So I’m getting back to work. Have a nice… business meeting?”

“Date,” Buffy said firmly. “Spike and I are on a date.”

“A date,” Xander said in a faint voice. “Okay. Have a nice--” He broke off with what sounded suspiciously like a sob and turned away.

Buffy watched his retreating back in satisfaction. “That went well.”

“Bloody transparent, if you ask me.” Spike took a swig of his drink, then went on in a falsetto. “‘Oh no, Xander! Whatever you do, don’t tell Giles or Angel! They’d never understand!’ Do you really think he’s that thick?” Another drink. “What am I saying? Of course he’s that thick. Good plan, love.”

“Xander’s not stupid, he’s just… overprotective.”

“What’s the note say?”

“Note?”

“He passed you a note.”

“Oh, yeah. Um, look away for a minute so I can pretend I’m being all secret squirrel.” Spike turned to face the room, coolly surveying the inhabitants, while Buffy slipped the folded paper into her lap and unfolded it. “It says… ‘If you’re here against your will, order a Bloody Mary next and I’ll call in the cavalry.’ Aww, that’s sweet.”

“Bloody ridiculous, if you ask me.” Spike glared off towards the bar. “Didn’t even bring me my bloody change.”

“It’s called a tip, Spike. And it is ridiculous, but sweet. Here, I’ll write him a note back.” Buffy rummaged in her little purse for a pen, scribbling quick words on the paper.

“What’re you going to say?” Spike took another drink. “Bloody huge tip. Even at the prices here, that’s more than thirty percent.”

“If you tip like Scrooge, he’ll know you’re still evil. Okay, here it is. ‘I’m not here against my will. I’m here living the dream. Can’t you just be happy for me?’” She frowned, then added a little bit. “‘P.S. Spike says to keep the change. Isn’t he generous? Wish me luck!’”

“Laying it on a bit thick, aren’t you?”

“I’m trying to find that happy medium between Disney Princess and Stepford Wife, so he thinks I’m serious but not brainwashed.”

Spike shrugged.

Buffy carefully folded the note back up. “Okay, you can look now. And give me another twenty.”

He sighed and rummaged in his pockets. “Going to put our song on the jukebox?”

“Ooh. I was just going to get us more drinks and pass Xander the note, but that’s a good idea. Dancing is super obvious. What’s our song?” She snagged the crumpled bill.

“Just bloody pick something.”

“All right. Be ready to dance when I get back.”

He caught her hand before she walked away, pressing a fervent kiss to the inside of her wrist. “Don’t be too long, love. Wouldn’t want me to get lonely, now, would you?”

She brushed her thumb across his cheek. “Now who’s laying it on thick?”

He smiled darkly, settling back into his seat as she turned away.

The bar was crowded now with students demanding drinks, but Xander rushed over to meet Buffy.

“Rough day?” he said hastily. “Can I get you a drink? Maybe a Bloody Mary?”

“No, Xander,” Buffy said sweetly. “Can I get a--” _piña colada _“--Diet Coke and, um, I think he said Johnny Walker Black? For Spike.” She held out the twenty and the note, setting them both in Xander’s hand.

“No Bloody Mary?” Xander looked at the money and the note blankly.

“Nope.”

“You’re sure?”

Buffy rolled her eyes. “Xander, I’m totally sure. You do not need to call the cavalry. I am having a wonderful date.” She cast a longing look back at Spike, who was watching her intently, hands steepled. “I know you don’t understand, but I’m just… really, really happy right now.”

“Happy.”

“He’s changed. He really has.”

“Changed.”

Buffy blew Spike a kiss; he grinned and caught it dramatically out of the air. “So can we drop the judgey-parrot act and may I have our drinks?”

“But not a Bloody Mary.”

“Definitely not.”

Xander sighed and prepared their drinks, setting a pile of bills in front of her. “Anything else?”

Buffy took one dollar out of the pile of change. “Nope, we’re good.” She smiled brilliantly and shoved the rest of the money towards him, ignoring Xander’s grouchy muttering of “definitely not good” as she strolled towards the jukebox, drinks in hand.

She scanned the selection, frowning as she tried to decide what would be the best song to convince Xander that she was totally in love with Spike. Obviously something they could slow dance to. That ruled out half the selections right there. She looked and looked, and then… she found it. Perfectly sappy, perfectly adoring, just… perfect. She slid in her dollar and pushed the buttons, heading back to their table as the last bars of the previous song played.

“Come on, lover,” she said sweetly, setting the drinks down and holding out her hand. “They’re playing our song.”

He took her hand and rose to his feet like a panther, drawing her towards the dance floor. “And what is our song? ‘I Wanna Be Sedated?’”

“Guess again.” She took his other hand, gazing up at him with her biggest, dreamiest eyes.

“Hope it’s not ‘Another One Bites the Dust,’” he growled playfully, kissing the back of each hand in turn.

“Nope. I mean, yeah, probably, but not tonight. We’re trying to rub our romance in Xander’s face.”

He grinned evilly. “‘Whip It?’”

That was an unexpected tingle. “You are… you’re incorrigible.”

“Mmm. Suppose I am.” The song started, and his face lit up in unholy glee. “Oh, love. ‘Wind Beneath My Wings?’ And you say I’m evil.”

Buffy let Spike draw her close and started to sway. “I’m not evil. I’m just very, very good.”

He kissed her ear as they moved together. “Wicked, then. Wicked and cruel. Be still my unbeating heart.”

Buffy lay her head on his chest, taking a deep breath. She hadn’t slow danced with a guy since the Prom, not since Angel, and while she knew this was all part of the plan, part of getting over Angel, taking all the _onlys_ of their relationship and relegating them to just _firsts_, to the past, superseding them with other memories, it was still like leaping off a cliff each time.

But Spike was a good dancer, moving easily with the music, and she was still simmering from all the innuendo and hand kissage and the feel of him under her hands now and thoughts of piña coladas and the way he’d looked holding her vibrator and all of it, all the things that had her slowly coming to a boil, and so she let herself enjoy the dance to the sappy, sappy song, and when the song ended she tilted her head up and Spike leaned down and they kissed, right in the middle of the dance floor, and for some reason she wanted to cry.

“We done, love?” he whispered against her lips.

Buffy smiled up at him, shoving the unexpected weepiness aside and strategizing. “We should finish our drinks and stay a while. Really rub it in good.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Did you get a piña colada?”

“No, because we are doing light PDA, public-friendly intimate caresses, not… what you said.”

Spike bared his teeth, obviously grouchy, but he followed her back to their table, sullenly drinking.

“Hey, we’re supposed to be having a good time together.”

“Could have a better time if we were together somewhere private.”

“Come on. We need it to be a believable date.” Buffy took his hand firmly. “Now, let’s talk about something.”

He grinned and opened his mouth.

“Not about that.”

He looked wounded. “You don’t know what I was going to say.”

“I can tell looking at your face. You were going to talk about sex stuff.”

He shrugged. “We_ are_ on a date.”

“Dates aren’t just about sex. They’re about… about getting to know the other person. Sharing stories.” She squeezed his hand eagerly. “I know! You’ve traveled a lot, right?”

“Been all over the world,” Spike sniffed.

“So, tell me about some of the places you’ve been.”

He looked at her levelly. “Been a vampire the whole time, love. You’re not going to like my stories.”

“I’m sure you have one or two that aren’t going to make me want to kill you now.” Buffy leaned forward, gazing at Spike like he was the most fascinating thing she’d ever seen. “Tell me those stories.”

He thought for a moment, then leaned forward intimately. “All right then. Want to hear about the time Dru got it in her head to go to Red Square at dawn, watch the sunrise hit the domes of St. Basil’s?”

“There’s no killing humans in this story, right?”

“Not a drop of blood spilled. Ended up drinking vodka for hours with the night shift guard while Dru danced about Lenin’s corpse.”

“Ew.”

“Blame the Russians for that one, love.”

Buffy sighed and put on her most attentive listening face. “All right. Tell me about Red Square.”

“All right.” Spike started to stroke her hand. “This was in 1989 or so, after glasnost but before the fall of the Soviet Union, yeah? Dru had it in her head to watch the chaos unfold, so we’d made our way to Moscow….”

Some time later, Buffy was smiling as Spike described a night-time boat trip on the Seine, when she glanced at the clock and realized they’d been there for hours. The obnoxious frat boys in the booth behind them had progressed from loud philosophical debates to two-word proclamations on the merits of beer mixed with animalistic grunting, the dance floor had more stumbling than dancing going on, and Xander was gazing at them with a long-suffering look of despair as he wiped a glass over and over again.

_Mission accomplished, _Buffy thought, and turned to Spike to suggest they wrap things up.

He spoke before she could. “So, do you think about the brooding boy wonder?”

Buffy blinked. “Angel?”

Spike nodded, glaring at her darkly over his glass. “When you use your little toy to get yourself off. Do you think about him, or about me?” His thumb was stroking hers, and suddenly the room seemed suffocating.

She thought about lying, about telling him she thought about Angel, or some movie star, anyone, some distraction that wouldn’t leave her bare and exposed. But she was honesty-girl these days, at least with Spike. “You,” she said softly.

He closed his eyes for a moment, then leaned forward, pinning her with his gaze. “Where? In your bed?”

She flushed. “In the shower. I don’t, um, don’t want to wake Willow up.”

His eyes flared. “Get loud, do you?”

“Sometimes.” All that simmering arousal that had been on low heat during storytime was bubbling hot again, making her feel all squirmy. “What about you? Do you, um… get loud?”

“Always,” he grinned. “Especially last night.”

“Oh, you… last night?”

“You in that ridiculous costume. You tasted like bloody heaven.” He shifted his thumb to trace circles in the center of her palm. “Got me all worked up. Had to let it out somehow.”

“Wow.” Buffy flickered a glance around the room. “Can people hear us?”

Spike shrugged. “Been waiting all day to lick your delicious cunt again.”

Buffy jolted in mingled shock and arousal. “People can hear you,” she hissed.

“They can’t hear us.” He leaned closer. “Do you say my name?”

“I say your name all the time, Spike,” she hedged.

He gripped her hand tighter. “When you come, in the shower. Do you say my name?”

She bit her lip. “Yes.”

He let out a gusty sigh.

She looked at him nervously “Do you…?"

“Say your name? Yeah.” He leaned in closer. “Buffy,” he whispered in fervent tones.

Something about the way he said it sent a shiver right to her core. “Spike,” she whispered back, furtively glancing at Xander, but he was way across the room, and the drunk guys were clearly off in their own world, and nobody could hear them, and she’d been wondering, and-- “So... you really liked it? Um, last night.”

He laughed, incredulous. “Yeah. I liked it.”

“It doesn’t… I don’t taste funny?” She’d tasted something when he’d kissed her after that she supposed was her, but it had just tasted kind of odd to her.

He looked down at their joined hands. “Taste bloody glorious.”

“Okay.” Buffy looked at their hands too, his thumb stroking hers, and she brought her other hand up to join them. “You don’t need a piña colada?” Her eyes fluttered up to meet his.

“Your cunt tastes better than coconut,” he said with a wicked, wicked grin, and oh god, she was hot all over now, aroused and embarrassed and could Xander tell? Could everyone tell he was saying naughty things to her, and she was all turned on, and--

“You should bring it next time,” he murmured.

“Bring what?”

“Your vibrator, love.”

_Oh god oh god oh god-- _“Why?”

He smiled, turning her hand over to trace patterns in her palm. “Been thinking all night about it. Wondering how you pleasure yourself. Imagining it. Love to get you alone and just… watch.” He raised her hand to his mouth and started kissing her fingers, one by one, between words. “Want to see the naughty things you do when nobody is watching, what buttons you push when you’re all alone. Imagine I’d learn a few things about your pleasure, watching you make yourself come. Be better than the bloody cinema.”

Dear god, just listening to him talk about watching her was… she should be horrified, she knew it, but imagining his eyes on her, watching her with her vibrator, was amazingly hot. She was melting in her seat, riveted by the sight of his lips on her fingertips. “Would it?” she managed to whisper.

He nodded. “But wouldn’t be fair to make you do all the work. So once I’d watched for a while, I might want to... participate. Take that adorable vibrator of yours, see how I can make you shake. Could use my fingers at the same time, or my tongue.” He sucked the tip of her thumb into his mouth. “Could find new places you never even dreamed could use a little… vibration.”

She was breathing harder, she knew she was, and oh god, everybody had to know. It had to be written all over her forehead, how she just wanted to… to bash him over the head and drag him off to have her wicked way with him. But she didn’t care, she was caught in the spell of Spike’s words. “Sounds interesting.”

He kissed the very center of her palm. “Wouldn’t mind if you used it on me, either,” he growled, teeth bared, and that was it, that was the end of it, because just thinking about how and where she could use her vibrator on Spike was… it was powerful. Powerful and heady and she felt dizzy from it all, and she knew that if she stayed at the bar one more minute, putting on their little show for Xander, she was going to explode.

“I think we’re done here,” she said faintly, standing up.

“Could dance more,” Spike teased.

“Nope,” Buffy said firmly. “We really, really have to go now.”

She waved cheerily at Xander and walked out the door with Spike, hand in hand.

Buffy kept a firm grip of Spike's hand, just in case Xander was watching, and Spike was holding on just as tight, and she glanced at him sidelong and realized he was watching her, his jaw twitching in that way that meant he was holding something back, and she realized she was holding back, too, and that realization galvanized her into action.

The next alley they passed, she yanked Spike into, slamming him up against the wall.

"What is your bloody problem, Slay--" Spike started, but Buffy cut his words off with a kiss, hard and demanding, and he groaned deep and harsh and kissed her back, grabbing her ass hard.

"You are such an asshole," she muttered between kisses.

"Fuck you," he snarled back, grinding into her crotch. "You and your bloody intimate caresses!"

"What the hell did you think you were doing? Saying things like that in public!" She kissed him again, her teeth and tongue clashing with his.

"Nobody heard me but you, you bloody bitch!"

Buffy pulled back and glared at him. "That's the problem!"

"You don't make any bloody sense!" he retorted, except he obviously knew what she wanted, through instinct or guesswork or sheer luck, because he dragged one of his hands around and under her skirt and shoved it down the front of her panties.

"God!" she nearly yelled, thrusting her hips against his hard fingers. He wasn't being gentle, but she didn't want gentle, she wanted just this, stabs of pleasure spiraling through her.

His eyelids drooped, though his jaw was still tense. "Tell me." His voice was low and urgent and hard.

"Do it!" she snarled back.

"Do what?" And oh, his voice was silk now, silk over steel, and she looked into his eyes and set her jaw and answered, feeling the toughness in her own voice, not in the mood to be shy or coy.

"Make me come." She thrust her hips against his fingers again and again, desperate.

“Want it rough tonight, do you?” He grinned fiercely, and Buffy’s mouth was open to deny it when drunken laughter sounded from the street behind them; Buffy’s eyes flickered that way, and she had just realized that the voices were still a ways off when Spike spun and shoved and whirled her into a deep doorway, out of sight of the street. His eyes glittered in the shadows as he slammed her up against the door frame, still stroking her, and oh god, it was hot, it was fantastic, and she shoved away that image of what good girls liked and opened up to the truth.

“Yeah,” she growled, hands shoving her panties as far down her thighs as she could reach. “I do want it rough tonight.”

Spike’s eyes rolled back in his head a bit and he groaned like she had just killed him, and then he kissed her, his fingers rubbing her clit hard and fast and she leaned back against the brick, spreading her legs wide, the elastic of her panties digging into her thighs as he rubbed and rubbed, sucking hard on her throat, her jaw, her mouth, and she screamed into his mouth as she came, shaking and clutching at his shoulders, and then he fell to his knees, pulling her panties down to her ankles and she shakily lifted each booted foot so he could yank them off all the way and then he grabbed her thighs, shoving them over his shoulders as he started to lick her, hard and fast, oh god, she couldn’t tell just what his tongue was doing but it was amazing. She clutched at the door behind her for support and thrust her hips into his face, her boots kicking at his back as she spasmed with pleasure, and then he grabbed her ass, tilting her hips towards him and oh god oh god, he was inside her, his _tongue_ was inside her, he was thrusting it into her, fucking her with his tongue and she bit back another scream because she was going to come again, she could feel it building, and he curved one arm around her thigh and set his hand on her belly, his thumb stroking her clit, maddeningly out of sync with his tongue and it was too much, too much, she grabbed at his head when the spasms started, feeling them spiral out all the way to her fingertips until every muscle in her body was part of it, and the son of a bitch laughed into her crotch and kept on licking and thrusting and stroking and she was crying, tears were running down her face but god it was good, she held his head to her and _more_ she whimpered, and he laughed again, except softly, and his tongue and his fingers gentled, stroking her soothingly, and she felt herself building and building again except it was like a dream, all smooth and tender and perfect, and when her orgasm swept over her it was like the ocean, dark waves closing over her head and all she heard was his voice, _there you go, love, there you go, god, you’re delicious, _and all she felt was his mouth, except it was like it was everywhere, from her head all the way down to her toes, she felt him everywhere, and all she saw was him, his hair pale in their shadowed retreat, his eyes looking up at her, his tongue on her, oh god, she watched him lick her and lick her as she shivered and shook, and as her body relaxed, she stroked his hair and his cheek and she started to laugh.

He laughed too, lifting her thighs off his shoulders and setting her feet on the ground before standing, tugging his T-shirt up to wipe his face.

As soon as she was sure her legs were capable of supporting her, she slammed him up against the wall.

“What about you?” she said in a voice she barely recognized as her own, throaty and rough and quivery. “Do you like it rough?”

Spike shrugged smugly. “Vampire.”

“I thought so.” And Buffy undid his jeans, yanking the zipper down, and grabbed his cock. Hard. He fell back against the wall, swearing, and she let go and ran her fingernails up along his length, not hard enough to draw blood, but not gently either. “Like that?”

“Fuck you,” he snarled, except he was grinning and thrusting into her grip and so she wrapped her fingers around his cock and started to pump, and he grabbed her hair and kissed her, and she kissed him back, hard, hard, everything was hard, the wall, his cock, his teeth, her lips, they were hard and rough and frantic, and then he threw his head back against the wall as he came, spurting all over her hand and his shirt and the door -- god, she hoped this wasn’t a door people actually used! -- and then he wrapped his arms around her and hugged her, pressing every part of her close, and she could feel his cock still throbbing and spending against her belly, and she hugged him back, feeling strangely… refreshed. Like she’d died and been reborn.

Washed clean.

Which was kind of ridiculous, when she probably had vampire spunk all over her dry-clean-only silk blouse.

But then he knuckled her chin up for a kiss, and oh, it was sweet, tender and reverent, the way she’d always dreamed of being kissed, and she felt tears leaking from her eyes again as she sank into the kiss, pouring all her complicated emotions into it, gratitude and hatred and passion and fear and relief and anger and affection, everything, everything, and if she hadn’t known better, she’d have believed he felt the same.

She buried her face in his chest and let it all seep away.

His hands were in her hair, stroking, and after a while she realized that she was kind of damp and uncomfortable, and also panty-less, and his naked cock was still kind of sticking into her stomach, and also they were in a doorway that might or might not actually lead somewhere, not even half a block from where Xander was working and hopefully calling Angel, and she raised her head and looked at Spike, vaguely terrified at how... _bare_ she felt.

He looked just as terrified. And baffled. And possibly furious, if that tic in his jaw was any indication, but then he slid his hands out of her hair and around to her cheeks, cradling her face gently as he kissed her, and that was good, kissing was good, kissing meant they didn’t have to talk about what had just happened.

Except that now Buffy wanted it to happen again. He clearly did too, if his cock was any indication, and she broke the kiss and looked at him, biting her lip. He met her eyes, brushing his thumb across her cheek, and then they both looked down at his erection, which was definitely ready for more.

“I have to patrol tonight,” Buffy blurted out.

He glared at her, that tic in his jaw starting up again. “Ah.”

“But, um… but I brought you something.”

His head went back, nostrils flaring. “Did you, indeed?”

She fumbled in her purse, finally bringing out the crystal she’d gotten from Willow. “See? I can make you a new promise.”

“Can you now?” He caught her free hand, the one not holding a crystal, and brought it to his cock. “Will you promise to make this better?”

She glared at him, even as her fingers curled around his cock. “This is for a big promise, dumbass.”

“Oh, it’s big, all right,” he purred.

She rolled her eyes, though her hand started sliding up and down his length because… because. “So what should I say? Um, ‘I promise not to kill, hurt, or deliberately inconvenience Spike?’”

He pouted, that ridiculous, sexy pout, thrusting into her hand. “But what if I want you to hurt me?”

And oh, that sent an unexpected rush of heat through her body, even more than the pout. “Hurt you how?” she whispered.

He set his hand over hers, squeezing it tighter around his cock. “Only the best ways,” he growled.

She was breathing hard again, and she looked down and watched their hands together on him, the way his foreskin bunched and slid as they pumped up and down, and this was something the books had left out, just how erotic it was to be the one giving pleasure, how powerful, how entrancing, and she swallowed and tried to get her mind back on track. “So what should I say, then?”

“Just don’t kill me,” he gritted out, jaw rigid.

“Okay,” she said shakily, and held the crystal up to her lips, holding his eyes with hers, still pumping and pumping his cock, feeling it throb beneath her fingers. “I swear and promise not to kill Spike.”

He kissed her as soon as the words were done, and she fumbled the crystal into his duster pocket and brought that hand to his cock, too, caressing the tip, catching beads of moisture on her thumb, and his free hand urged her hand lower, to cup his balls while she was pumping, and she watched it all, watched her hands pleasuring him, and then he was coming again, all over him and her, and he kissed her again, open-mouthed and lavish, before running his lips down her throat.

“God, I want to lick you all over,” he growled into her skin, running his tongue along her collarbone.

Buffy glanced around. “Here?”

He looked around, dazed, like he had forgotten they were in a doorway, then shrugged. “At the crypt, then.”

“I have to patrol,” Buffy protested.

“You can patrol after,” he growled. “First I’m going to get you naked and lick your delicious cunt until you scream.” He stepped back and shoved his softened cock back in his jeans, glaring at her as he buttoned up.

She looked down at herself, then around the doorway. “Where did my panties go?”

“Dunno.” He shrugged and slung his arm around her shoulder, starting to walk. Giving the alley one last glance, she fell in beside him, and after a moment slipped her arm around his waist, cuddling up to him as they exited the alley and walked down the street.

After all, Xander might be watching.


	8. Chapter 8

Spike tried to saunter casually, to swagger down the street with his arm around his woman, but she was all nestled up against him, smelling of his come and hers, fragrant with the heady spice of her arousal, and he had to devour her, to consume her, and his feet just started moving faster and faster until they reached the gate of the sleepy cemetery that they'd set up their love nest in, and he was about to suggest they run when she shrugged off his arm, grinning at him sidelong.

"Race you!" She laughed and vaulted over the stone wall, and he swore and leapt after her, nearly tripping over his own feet in anticipation, watching her golden legs flashing as she ran the short distance to their crypt, her skirt flying up in the breeze, her tight bare ass clenching, and he was going to fucking explode if he didn't have his hands on her skin _now._ He caught up to her just at the crypt door, catching her up and spinning her around and crashing through the door.

It was dark, and he consciously quelled himself, knowing this was one of those things worth savoring, worth doing right, and so he heaved her up to sit on the sarcophagus, kissing her hard and fast before he started to light the candles.

"What's this?"

Spike didn't have to look to know what she was talking about. "It's a blanket."

There was a long pause, broken only by the click and hiss of his Zippo and a slick sound that he knew was her fingers on the satiny comforter. "Well, thanks for that, master of the obvious. _Why_ is there a blanket?"

"You'd rather sit your ass on cold, hard stone?" Bugger, why had he got so many bloody candles? This was taking bloody forever.

"Hmm. Suppose not." Click and hiss. Fingers on satin. "I never would have pictured you as a guy who liked green."

"I like green on you," he muttered, not looking at her. "Or you on green, that is." He wasn't about to tell her how last night, after he'd seen her home, he'd broken into one of the posher department stores and stalked around the bedding aisles until he found a shade of sage green that almost matched her eyes, one her golden skin would glow against in the candlelight. She'd likely read something serious into it, like affection, which of course wasn't it at all. He hated her with every particle of his being.

He just also wanted her to be naked on a green satin comforter that matched her eyes. For his own pleasure.

She didn't respond to what he'd said, and he didn't say anything more.

But finally all the candles were lit, and he turned and looked at her. She was watching him wryly, still sitting on the sarcophagus, booted feet idly kicking the air.

"You sure that's enough candles?" she teased. "I think there's a Pier One around the corner that's still open."

He prowled towards her, eyeing her legs. "It's enough."

Her breath caught, but she glanced off at the door. "How long do you think it'll take?"

"How long will what take?"

"For Angel to get here. Giles said he thinks he settled down in LA."

Spike froze in his tracks. "That eager to see your old lover?"

She blinked, frowning at the door. "No. I just figured we should, you know, be prepared. I'm sure Xander called him already." She laughed then, sheepishly. "Actually, I was just wondering how much time we'd have for, um, what you said."

He smiled then, feeling vicious. "That I’m going to get you naked and lick your cunt until you scream?"

She smiled back, turning her face to him. "Yeah. That."

"It's two hours from LA to Sunnydale," Spike said conversationally, prowling closer. "Depending on traffic."

"Oh, is that going to be enough time?" Her voice was innocent, but her eyes were anything but.

"No."

She bit her lip thoughtfully. "So you were planning on licking my… licking me for more than two hours?"

He just grinned.

She raised her eyebrows. "Well," she sniffed. "I don't really have that much time. You know I promised Giles I'd patrol tonight. So--" She started to walk towards the door.

Spike didn't reach out to her, though every ounce of him screamed out at the thought of her leaving. "Stay," he whispered instead.

She paused, glancing over her shoulder.

"Stay," he said again. "Please."

And she rolled her eyes dramatically, turning back and tossing her purse aside. "All right," she laughed. "But I expect you to live up to what you promised."

"Haven't eaten a soul," he vowed. "Haven't even--"

She tossed her blazer on top of her purse. "Not that promise. I already know you kept that one. The other one." She flung her arms around his neck and brushed her lips against his. "Make me scream," she whispered.

He groaned and reached for the strings of her blouse, those bloody infuriating strings, and he loosened them just enough to get the bloody thing off and she raised her arms imperiously over her head while he tugged the silk up and off, rubbing it against her breasts as he went, then tossing it off towards her purse, and then she was shimmying out of her frilly skirt, kicking it off to join the blouse, and her panties were already in his pocket and she'd not worn a bra and so she was naked but for her little ankle boots, which was bloody fantastic, he imagined fucking her just like this, her booted ankles crossed behind his hips as he pumped into her, and the thought made him weak, but no, they weren't going to fuck, that was the deal, and besides, tonight he had a promise to keep, so instead he hoisted her back up to sit on the end of the sarcophagus and knelt at her feet to remove the boots, one by one, and then the soft socks beneath them, kissing the sole of each foot as he bared them.

He stood and caught her up in his arms then, like a bride, moving her on up the sarcophagus until she was right in the center.

She looked like she was going to cover herself for a moment, but then she relaxed and stretched her arms out luxuriously to her sides. "This is different."

"Comfortable?" he murmured.

"Kinda weird," she laughed. "I mean, me being naked." She glanced up at him, expression vulnerable.

"I did say all over."

"Not to mention you've still got your coat on."

He rolled his eyes and slipped his arms out of his duster, setting it aside. "Better?"

She eyed him, rolling onto her side and propping her head on her hand. "Shirt, too."

He yanked his T-shirt off roughly, impatient. His cock was hard again behind his zip, but he'd come twice tonight already and fucking was off the table, so his cock could bloody well stay zipped for now. Though he was damn well going to work on renegotiating that part of the deal.

Unless Buffy decided to renegotiate it first. Which was seeming more and more likely every day.

Not tonight, though; she eyed his crotch, speculation obvious in her eyes, but then just stretched atop the green comforter, and Spike could take a hint as well as the next man, leaning over to kiss her, running a hand over her bare breast, a low animal sound coming from his throat as her nipple pebbled and hardened at his touch.

She shivered. "Chilly tonight."

"Is it?" He frowned, glancing around the crypt, but he'd only got the one blanket.

"Well, it is November. Even in Southern California, that means something." She stretched again, laughing. "Don't worry. Fire hot. Candles pretty." She stroked a hand across his chest. "Warm me up?"

"Dunno. Perhaps I should go nick-- uh, buy more candles." She wasn't the only one who could tease.

She pouted in response. "I thought you wanted to lick me all over." She trailed a single finger along her collarbone and down the center of her chest to her navel, and that was enough teasing.

"Roll over," Spike said, voice thick, hurriedly unlacing his boots and kicking them aside.

She rolled her eyes, but she did it, shifting so her cheek was resting on her crossed arms. She watched him through her eyelashes. "Do I get a massage, then?"

"Maybe later," he murmured, brushing her hair off to the side, arranging it across the green fabric, and then he bent down and licked all along the length of her spine, from her tailbone up to the nape of her neck. They’d taken off some of the edge in that doorway; now he wanted a slow burn, wanted to tease her until she was begging him for more.

She gasped harshly, tensing, then relaxing as he settled into licking her, tender laps at her shoulders and neck, and up to her sensitive ears, tracing the whorls with the tip of his tongue.

"How many more times can I make you come tonight, do you think?" He whispered it right in her ear.

Her breath was coming hard and fast already. "I don't know. Um, two?" she whispered back, shyly.

He curved a hand around her ass and nibbled back down her throat. "Don't plan on stopping at two, love."

"Five? Five is a nice round number."

"That would be a start." He gently bit the nape of her neck, just there, where kisses always made her melt. The barest pressure of teeth, and then a flick of his tongue. "I was thinking double digits."

She slanted a wry glance over her shoulder. "Wow. Is this room even big enough for you, me, and your ego?"

“Is that a challenge, Slayer?” He pressed kisses down her spine, each vertebrae one by one. “Not about bloody ego. It’s about determination. Dedication. Devotion.”

She laughed faintly. “So you’re thorough and goal oriented. I knew that.” She pushed up on her elbows, watching him with slumbrous eyes as he kissed the little divots on either side of her spine. “That was the first thing I heard about you. That once you start something, you don’t stop until everything in your path is....” She broke off, looking away.

“Dead?” He ran his tongue up the ridges of her ribcage. “Not killing anyone these days. We have a truce.” She still looked like she was thinking too hard, probably about how she should kill him, and so he kissed the nape of her neck again, and again, until she was quivering. “Have better things to dedicate myself to now.” He tugged her near arm out from under her head, stretching it out as he started to lick down her bicep.

She watched him, a sleepy, snarky smile on her face. “Oh, so you finally joined Peroxide Abusers Anonymous?”

He nibbled at the inside of her elbow, the skin there soft as silk. “Bite your tongue, Slayer.”

“No?” She chuckled, though her voice was ragged. “Thursday night Poetry Slam at the Bronze?”

“You are sodding hilarious,” he growled into her wrist, licking her pulse feverishly. “I am trying to say I am utterly dedicated to pleasuring you.” He kissed her palm and started to suck on her fingertips, one by one.

“Oh,” she moaned, her thumb brushing his jawline as he sucked. “That’s… that’s a good vocation to have.”

“It’s all I bloody think about,” he whispered urgently. “The way you taste. The way you smell. The way you feel. The sound of your voice. Every moment of every day, I’m thinking about the next time I’ll be touching you, the next kiss, the next taste….”

She curved her hand around his cheek. “Me too,” she said quietly, ineffably, and he groaned and licked all the way from her hand up to her shoulder so that he could kiss her lips again, he kissed her and kissed her until he had to do more, and it was time to do her other arm, he’d promised all over, but he didn’t want to walk all the way around the sarcophagus like a bloody surgeon, so he set his hands on either side of her rib cage and slithered over her, pausing halfway to press his body along hers, grinding into her ass, and then he was on the other side kissing down to her elbow and she turned her head to watch him, her cheek on the comforter now, her ribs heaving with panting gasps of arousal. He lavished attention on each calloused fingertip, kissed her hummingbird pulse, sucked on her elbow, nuzzled her shoulder blade, and then he was moving back down her body, his tongue lapping at her sides and the small of her back and down the sweet crevice of her ass.

She jolted when he set his hands to her ass and spread her cheeks wide, flicking his tongue at her tight anus, but he’d promised all over, and he might as well lay some foundation, it was always possible that was something else she wanted to try before he killed her, but he didn’t dwell, just moved on to trace every curve of her ass and then down the back of her thighs, nibbling tenderly at the backs of her knees, then licking down her strong calves to her ankles and then laving the soles of her feet with his tongue, lifting each foot up to suck on each of her toes, one by one.

“On your back now, love,” he whispered.

She laughed and awkwardly shifted around to lie on her back. “Not fair, expecting my muscles to work after that.”

“Not even half started,” he purred.

She propped herself up on her elbows. “Have I mentioned lately that you’re evil?”

“Perhaps once or twice,” Spike shrugged, but then he was at the foot of the sarcophagus lifting her foot to his mouth again, licking the arch and the instep, and she fell back, hands clutching the comforter.

He licked up her shins and lapped at her knees and then he pushed her knees out to the side until her legs were spread wide, dangling off each side of the sarcophagus, and he climbed right up as he licked up the inside of her thighs, nibbling at the tendons. She was shaking and tense and dripping wet, but he pointedly avoided her cunt, nibbling instead on her hip bones and licking up to her navel.

She grabbed at his head, pushing downwards. “You missed a spot.”

“All in good time,” he said with a nonchalance he didn’t feel, kissing up to her breasts. “Wouldn’t want these to feel neglected.”

“You are such an asshole,” she laughed.

“Thorough and goal-oriented,” he retorted.

She rolled her eyes playfully, then fell back onto the comforter, eyes rolling back in her head, as he curled his tongue around one hard red nipple. “Evil,” she moaned. “Evil, evil, evil.”

“And you bloody love me evil.”

She stilled. “I don’t love you.”

“Good,” he snarled into her breast. “I don’t love you.” He switched to her other breast, sucking harder. “You fucking love this, though.” He licked his tongue in a lavish circle. “Don’t you, pet?”

“Oh god,” she moaned, arching into his mouth. “I do. I totally do. Don’t stop.”

“Won’t,” he purred, his mouth gentling. He suckled and licked and nibbled at her breasts, shifting so he could feel the wet heat of her quim against his belly, and she moaned and shook and swore, hands clutching at his back and his hair, and then she was tugging him up, so he licked up along her collarbone and her throat to her mouth, and her lips were quivering with need and he realized his were as well, that he was shaking with arousal, and that was it, he’d had enough of taking it slow, and so he slid one hand smoothly down to her dripping cunt.

“Oh!” She arched her back a little bit, opening her thighs wider, and he propped himself up so that he could watch her face as he stroked her. God, she was so hot and wet, pumping her hips against his fingers, and she was grinning at him in challenge. Spike had never backed down from a challenge, not once.

He slid his middle finger inside her. “Want this?”

“God, yes.” She tilted her hips up, inviting him deeper. “More.”

He lavishly kissed her shoulders and chest, pumping his finger in and out, dizzy from the scent of her, and _bugger _he couldn’t stand it any more, he was done with the slow burn, he needed to taste her now, and he slid back and off between her feet and grabbed the comforter on either side of her hips and yanked it down to the end, until her wet pink quim was right at the edge — she squealed, but then when he dove in and ran his tongue along her, all through her juices, her squeal turned to a guttural groan, and then she was grunting and moaning as he licked and sucked, his arms scooped under her thighs, and she was writhing and spasming and swearing and she tasted like heaven, and then she was coming, his face was all wet with her juices and he licked her and licked her until the throbbing subsided and she relaxed, her legs dangling limply off the edge of the sarcophagus, and he slowly stood, giving her thighs another lingering caress, gazing down at her damp, sweaty, thoroughly loved body.

She looked up at him, face unreadable.

He couldn’t think of anything to say.

“Well,” she said at last, wriggling her dangling legs. “Um, this is awkward.”

“Right,” Spike said blankly, looking at her, then walked around to the other end, grabbing the end of the comforter and dragging it back on to the sarcophagus, Buffy along with it — she laughed shakily — until she was all the way back on the flat surface, looking up at him in dazed amusement.

“So,” he said finally, walking around to her side. “Where were we?”

She laughed. “One. We were at one.”

He managed a grin, though he felt dizzy still. “Ah, yes. The challenge. And I promised to make you scream.” He set his hand on her belly, feeling her still quivering. “Made all sorts of lovely noises, pet, but not that, and I’m a man of my word.”

She set her hand atop his, stroking gently. “When do I get to make _you _scream?”

“Not tonight,” he growled, climbing back up on the sarcophagus with her, ignoring the parts of his body that were begging for attention now. He could wank later. “You challenged me. Tonight I get to make you eat your words.” He slid down and pressed a reverent kiss to her swollen clit. “And I get to eat this.”

She sank her hands into his hair. “Then you’d better get started,” she said in a voice like sin. “We haven’t got all night.”

He groaned and set his mouth to her.

It might have been two hours or two days or even two years later — the passage of time had got a bit muddled in the scents and sensations of his feast — but her latest scream of release was still echoing off the stone walls when they were interrupted by a harsh beeping.

“Crap!” Buffy gasped out, struggling to sit up. “Is it already three?”

Spike glanced around the crypt, confused by the world holding something other than Buffy. “What the bloody blue balls is that?”

“My beeper,” Buffy said hurriedly, sliding off the side of the sarcophagus. Her legs almost gave out and she caught herself on the edge of the stone. “Whoa. Legs not so worky.”

“Somebody’s… beeping you?” Spike felt a growl rising up in his throat at the idea that someone would be contacting his lover at this time of night.

“I set an alarm.” Buffy managed to stumble over to her little handbag, rummaging inside. “I thought — um, hoped actually — we might get carried away, and I really did promise I’d patrol.” She dug out a little plastic device, poking at some buttons until the beeping stopped.

Spike wasn’t sure whether to be pissed off at the interruption or pleased that she’d _hoped _they’d get carried away. He settled on pissed off, because— “You’re leaving.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Spike, we left the bar before midnight. It’s three am. Obviously our plan is not coming to fruition tonight. I have to go patrol now so that I can get at least an hour’s sleep before classes tomorrow.”

“Could play hooky,” Spike pointed out, sauntering closer.

She stood and faced him, and suddenly she was hugging him. “I wish,” she mumbled into his chest. “But mom is going into debt for me to get a degree, so I have to get good grades, and we’ve already talked about the sacred duty thing.” She squeezed him tighter. “I’m sorry.”

Bloody hell, the bint was apologizing again. He wasn’t going to melt just because she was treating him like a man, like a real lover, like— “All right, then.”

He watched hungrily as she hastily donned her clothes, wrinkling her nose at them. “Walk me to my dorm? I need to go change. Or at least get underwear on.”

He shrugged. “Suppose so.” He yanked on his shirt and boots, sullenly settling his duster on his shoulders when she seemed ready to go.

She suddenly went up on tiptoes and kissed him on the cheek. “Thank you for a lovely date.”

He bent down and kissed her on the lips. “Thank you for a lovely scream.”

“Hey, I screamed at least three times,” she pouted.

He kissed her again, and again, and then walked her back to her bloody dorm, and then kissed her one last time and watched her slip inside, fumbling in his pocket for a cigarette, cursing when his fingers encountered the hard lump of her latest promise crystal.

He stood in the bushes and glared up at her window, smoking, watching as the light went on and then off, shifting to glare at the door until she came out again. She’d changed into trousers and a no-nonsense green T-shirt over a sports bra, all business, no sex, but his flagging cock leapt to attention again at the sight of her anyhow.

When she strode off into the night, he followed her.

He watched from a safe distance as she hunted, avidly devouring the sight of her fighting when she found a vamp, the length of her legs as she kicked, the strength of her fists as she traded blows with the poor sod, the swirl and flash of her hair. Her voice came to him on the wind.

“You were thinking, what, a little helpless coed before bed? You know very well, you eat this late…” She staked her prey, lightning-fast. “You're gonna get heartburn.”

God, she was despicable. And beautiful. And detestable.

And he still wanted her.

He turned and ran to the nearest sewer entrance, escaping the impending day.

*

Willow was watching Oz watch stupid-named-after-a-wart-girl sing when Xander stumbled up to their table, looking like he’d just escaped from a horde of rampaging vampires. His usual Tuesday night look, actually, with the addition of a bistro apron around his waist.

“Guys,” Xander panted out, heaving in huge gulps of air. “Come quick! It’s an emergency.”

Oz started out of his reverie. “What?”

_Oh, sure, stop listening when Xander talks to you, _Willow groused inwardly. “What’s wrong, Xander?”

“Not in here.” Xander glanced around frantically. “Outside.”

Oz flickered a glance back at the stage. “Can it wait until after this set?”

“It’s Buffy,” Xander hissed.

Willow grabbed Oz’s hand, impatient. “We can hear the music from outside. Come on.”

He followed her, which was nice, that he was choosing Buffy’s emergency over the music, though she tried very hard not to notice how many times he glanced back. Geez, what was so special about Veruca? It wasn’t her singing, unless eating the microphone was good vocal technique. Maybe it was the leather pants. Willow had always liked corduroy, the shh-shh sound it made when she walked, but maybe she should start wearing leather?

Xander led them out the back door to the deserted alley, running his hands through his hair as he started to pace. Oz watched him steadily, wearing that little tiny crease between his eyebrows that Willow knew meant he was really annoyed at the interruption.

“What happened to Buffy?” Willow finally said, when Xander couldn’t seem to get started. “Is she hurt?”

“Not physically, as far as I know,” Xander stammered, gesturing with his hands. “She’s… she’s on a date.”

Willow folded her arms. “Well, that’s funny. So are we.” It was a depressing date, but it was still a date. Though she was a little hurt -- Buffy hadn’t said anything about a date to her. Did she have a secret guy? Why would she keep it secret from Willow?

“I know,” Xander wheezed. “Sorry. I’m really, really sorry. I know you guys are having date night. I am so, so sorry. But I already had to wait until my shift ended, because my boss wouldn’t let me leave in the middle of the rush for a personal emergency, he had me schlepping pitchers of beer all over the pub, and I spilled beer on the note, and Buffy left with her date, like, an hour ago, and it’s bad. It’s really, really bad. So bad.”

Willow kept her arms folded and tapped her foot. “Xander, this is exactly what you said when Buffy went on a date with Angel. And with… what’s his face. That other guy. All the other guys, actually. I thought you were going to get over this Buffy’s-on-a-date-panic thing now that you have a sort-of girlfriend.” Not that Anya was any better than Cordelia, but at least she was just a former vengeance demon who’d been killing men for centuries, not… Cordelia.

“It’s Spike.”

Her blood ran cold. “Spike went after Buffy and her date? To kill them?”

“No!” Xander laughed, high and hysterical. “Oh, no. I wish Spike were trying to kill Buffy. No, this is way, way worse.”

“How can it possibly be worse?”

“Spike _is _her date.”

Willow looked at Xander, and Xander looked at her, and Oz looked mildly perturbed, and none of them said anything for a long moment. Veruca’s annoying voice filtered out through the half-open doorway, and when Willow realized Oz was kind of starting to turn that way again, she finally also realized that the punchline she was waiting for was never going to happen, that “Spike is Buffy’s date” had been the punchline, the terrible, awful punchline, and Xander was actually serious.

“You can’t be serious.”

“Oh, I am deadly serious,” Xander said, that hysterical giggle busting out again. “Buffy came to my pub, with Spike. They had drinks, they danced, they spent literal hours gazing into each other’s eyes, she drank, like, ten Diet Cokes and not one Bloody Mary, there was kissing, there was hand-holding, there was… there was _finger nibbling._ If I had been looking at any other couple, I would have bet money that they were going to go home after and have The Sex.”

Willow ignored the inane Diet-Coke-to-Bloody-Mary-ratio nonsense and cut to the chase. “And you didn’t, I don’t know, intervene?”

“Oh, I intervened. I intervened just as much as my boss would allow. Yeah, I talked to Buffy. She said… she said she had finally managed to move on and find something beautiful.” He laughed again, eyes bugging out. “Beautiful, she said! And she said I was being judgey. She called me a judgey parrot! And then later, when Spike wasn’t even right next to her, she said that she was having a wonderful date, and that she was _really, really happy_.”

“Two reallys?” Oz said, whistling.

“And then there’s this. Look at this.” Xander shakily unfolded a damp piece of paper.

Willow took it gingerly between her fingertips -- it smelled like beer -- and read the note. “Wow.” Well, at least she understood the Bloody Mary thing now. She handed the note to Oz. His forehead crease got a whole millimeter longer as he read, taking him from _mildly perturbed _to _definitely concerned. _She gestured helplessly. "Was Spike acting all… I don't know, kill-y? Like, did he threaten you?"

"_He shook my hand_," Xander said, voice dripping horror. "He apologized for hitting me on the head, and he called me _mate_ and he… he tipped _thirty-eight percent_."

"Dastardly," Oz remarked.

“Okay. Calm down, Xander. Let’s run through some possibilities,” Willow said, taking deep breaths. “Um, maybe she was a robot Buffy?”

“Oh, no. I’d never get tricked by something like that,” Xander said, decisive. “Definitely real Buffy.”

Willow bit her lip. “Do we think there was… blackmail involved?”

“Then why didn’t she order a Bloody Mary?”

“Okay, so probably not that. Uh, maybe, um, Faith came out of her coma and switched bodies or something?”

Xander rolled his eyes. “Be serious.”

“Spell?” Oz suggested, which was nice, because yeah, that was the most likely culprit, go smart boyfriend, but also kind of annoying because, well, any time someone started pointing out how there might be a spell involved in some mishap or another, someone also started pointing fingers at Willow, just because she liked to do spells and sometimes they didn’t work out great, which was not really very fair, because sometimes they _did _work out great. And she’d hardly even done any spells lately. Not even at the Wicca group, which had turned out to be not a very spell-inclined group at all. Just at the Scary House, and the promise crystals... which Buffy had taken a few of… to experiment with….

“I can check if it’s a spell,” Willow said quickly, glancing sidelong at Oz. She wasn’t ready to give up on her own date, even if it had gotten all wart-infested. “Um, I wasn’t planning on going back to the dorm tonight, but I’ll see her tomorrow, I’m sure.”

“But _she’ll _go back to the dorm, right?” Xander said hopefully.

“Oh, yeah,” Willow said, wishing she felt as sure as she sounded. “We have class tomorrow. She won’t stay out too late.” _If it is a date. Which she said it was. Why would Buffy be on a date with Spike if it wasn’t actually a date?_

Xander took a deep, shuddering breath. “Okay. Okay. So you’re going to see Buffy tomorrow and figure out if it’s a spell.”

“Yep,” Willow agreed, nodding vigorously.

He started to hyperventilate again. “What if Spike is killing her right now?”

Willow closed her eyes, mustering strength, because that was the big old elephant in the alley right now, the thought that this was all some ploy of Spike’s to get to Buffy and he was going to turn on her any second. If he hadn’t already. “Do you have any idea where they went?”

Xander sighed, morosely staring into the middle distance -- probably at the very same elephant Willow was staring at. “No. They were out of sight by the time I made it outside for a break. They could have hopped on a plane to Timbuktu for all I know.”

“How are we supposed to help her if we don’t know where she is?”

“I thought maybe you could, you know, make a magickal compass or something.” Xander gave her his best hopeful-basset-hound look.

“Look, the last locator spell I tried ended up turning into hundreds of magickal bees and chasing me around the Scary House,” Willow pointed out. “That was just last night. I think it’s safe to say I have not yet mastered it.”

“We could call Giles,” Oz said quietly.

And okay, there was another smart/annoying boyfriend thing. Because yeah, calling Giles would be smart. Giles might know how to find Buffy, or Spike. Giles might have all sorts of ideas. But… Giles might also start pointing his pointy fingers Willow-ward. He’d already given her a lecture or twelve on responsible magic usage, which she totally hadn’t earned. She was really responsible, and studious, and it wasn’t even possible the promise crystals had made this happen. It really wasn’t. She knew they worked just right, and that she hadn’t cast any other spells, other than the stuff at the Scary House which had already gone wrong in its own way, and whatever was going on with Buffy totally wasn’t her fault. But Giles was a super worry-wart, and he’d probably blame her. She was about to guiltily suggest they not call Giles when Xander sighed.

“That was another thing she said. When she said I was being judgey. She said it wasn’t fair that Giles or Angel would put a stop to it, when she was finally happy.”

That made Willow think again, too. “She has been… unusually happy of late. Really bouncy, and smiley, even though she’s been patrolling really late almost every night.” She swallowed uncertainly. “Um, what if she really is happy?”

“With _Spike?_” Xander’s arms flailed at the very thought.

“I know, oogy, but… what if she is?” Willow held out her hand to Oz. “Let me see the note again.”

Oz handed it over, eyes flickering back to the doorway, to the music, which made Willow firm her resolve. One thing getting Giles involved would definitely do would be to scuttle her date night. And she really, really needed some Oz cuddles right now. Not that she thought he’d ever, ever… she just needed hugs. “This is definitely Buffy’s handwriting. A little messy, but hers. And she writes, ‘can’t you just be happy for me?’” She planted her hands on her hips. “Well, guys? Can’t we?”

“No,” Xander said immediately.

Oz shrugged.

“No wonder Buffy thinks you’re judgey,” Willow said, rolling her eyes. “So, we can go get Giles, and spend the rest of the night hunting all of Sunnydale for Buffy and Spike, or… or we can trust Buffy. Buffy’s the best slayer that ever was. You know if Spike needs staking, she’s the one who can do it, right? Or do you really think Spike can beat her?”

Xander glared at the ground. “No,” he admitted sullenly.

Oz shrugged.

“So,” Willow pressed. “If Buffy’s really happy with Spike, do you think she’ll be happy we told on her to Giles?”

“That sentence actually does not make sense to me,” Xander said helplessly. “I can’t… I can’t.”

“Okay. Forget that it’s Spike. If Buffy were dating some other guy that we didn’t approve of, and she was really happy, would it be okay to call in the troops?”

“Yes?” Xander looked hopeful.

“No,” Oz said firmly.

And that settled it for Willow. “Guys, we have to trust Buffy. She’s not stupid. I’m sure she knows what she’s doing, right?”

Xander nodded reluctantly.

“So.” Willow took a deep breath. “Tomorrow before class I’ll check Buffy for spell residue, just to make sure it’s not that.”

“And ask her about Spike?”

Willow bit her lip. “I don’t know. Maybe I’d better not. I mean, if she’s already feeling judged, then she might get upset that you told me, even. I can kind of feel her out, though?”

Oz looked back at the door to the Bronze, far too longingly for Willow’s taste, but the music had stopped. “Should we tell Angel?”

“No!” Xander and Willow said together; she smiled at Xander gratefully.

“He dumped Buffy and skipped town,” Xander said, brows beetling. “No way we tell that jerk.”

“Buffy’s really trying to move on,” Willow added. “It’s not fair to her to give her ex-boyfriend veto power.”

Oz thought it over, then nodded. “Okay.”

“We’re all in agreement, then,” Willow said with a smile. “Whatever’s going on with Buffy -- and believe me, we’re going to find out -- Angel must never know.”


	9. Chapter 9

Buffy felt like she had just tumbled into bed when her alarm went off, and for a moment she just stared at her digital clock, half expecting it to melt off her desk like Salvador Dali was taking on 1999, but it didn’t melt after all, and as she started to come more awake she was also becoming aware of all the ways in which she was sore, and then she remembered just where all that soreness had come from, especially the delicious gotta-do-that-again soreness, and she hit the snooze bar and snuggled back into her pillow just for a moment, remembering, even though it was totally surreal, because… wow.

“Buffy? Are you okay?”

Buffy startled out of the memory of Spike’s tongue doing… surreal things… and opened her eyes to see Willow peering down at her. Oh god. Had she been squirming? She’d felt squirmy. Maybe Willow thought she was sick. Or hurt.

“Morning, Wills,” she said as casually as she could, stuffing all the memories to the back of her head and trying to look like she hadn’t been thinking about sex. Though she supposed Willow wouldn’t know what she looked like when she was thinking about sex. Would she? She’d never exactly said to Willow, “Hey, I’m thinking about sex now!” and had Willow thoughtfully examine and catalogue her expression and all right, so she was rambling in her head, of course she was rambling, because Willow was still looking at her all curious and expectant. Why was Willow looking at her like that?

Did she know?

No, she couldn’t know. If she knew, she’d be freaking out and calling Angel or Giles or both, not just looking at her. Of course she didn’t know. The fact that Giles and Angel weren’t in her room right now performing an intervention meant that Xander had kept his mouth shut for probably the first time in his life, just when she needed him to spill the beans. How unfair was that?

Still, Willow looked at her for a weirdly long time before replying. “Morning, Buffy. How was… how was patrol last night?”

Buffy shrugged, sitting up, glad she’d stuffed her date clothes way to the bottom of her hamper. “Not bad. Couple vamps went fwoosh. They totally didn’t laugh at my jokes, though. Not even the heartburn one. Don’t know why I even bother.”

“Any vamps in particular?”

Buffy went cold for a second before she remembered she was supposed to be hunting down Harmony. “Oh. Uh, no. No luck finding our favorite ex-cheerleader. Just your everyday, run-of-the-mill campus vampires.” Somehow she… didn’t want to talk about Spike. Not to Willow, not just out of the blue, right before they had to be at class. She wrapped her comforter a little more securely around her still-squirmy middle. “How was your date night?”

Willow’s face ran through a gamut of emotions before settling on disgust; she flopped down on her own bed. “Okay, I guess. Buff, have you heard of this Veruca chick? Dresses like Faith, voice like an albatross?”

“Wasn’t she that girl in Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory? The really awful one?”

“No, this Veruca’s worse.” Willow slumped down, face sinking. “I think… never mind.”

Buffy glanced nervously at her hamper. “You know, you can’t really judge someone by how they dress.”_ Or undress._

Willow’s eyes widened. “You think I’m being judgey?”

“No, I mean….”

“I’m not judging. Totally not judging.” Willow nodded earnestly. “This room is a completely judgment-free zone.

“I know, Willow,” Buffy said reassuringly, slipping out of bed so she could come give Willow a hug.

Willow hugged her back quickly, then shifted away, face determined. “How have those promise crystals been working out for you?”

_Whoa, slight change of subject there. _“Fine?”

“You haven’t had any, I don’t know, weird tingling? Dizziness? Feeling... not like yourself?”

Buffy laughed. “I’m fine, Wills.” _In fact, I feel… more like myself than I ever have. Like I’m finally able to be who I am. _She fumbled for her purse next to the bed, pulling out Spike’s promise. “They’re working great. See?”

Willow narrowed her eyes. “Let me just check. Put it on the table.”

Buffy set the crystal down, feeling suddenly nervous, and went back to sit on her own bed. “Um, one of them… got broken. The promise, and then the crystal once it went all dark. I’m sorry.”

“No biggie. I made lots.” Closing her eyes, Willow mumbled a few words of Latin, rubbed her hands together, and then spread them out to form a circle with her thumbs and fingers, aimed at the crystal. The circle shimmered like a soap bubble. Her eyes popped open, glowing faintly blue. “Okay. Promise looks active. No wacko colors in the aura….” She turned slightly so that her circled hands were pointing at Buffy. “Huh.”

Buffy looked down at herself nervously. “What? What do I have on me?” _Hickeys? Vampire dust? A big magic neon sign that says I let Spike suck on my hoo-ha for three-plus hours last night?_

“Nothing,” Willow said quietly. “There’s nothing on you. Just, um, you.” She blinked, shaking her hands and letting the soap-bubble magic fizzle away. “And pajamas. You have pajamas on you. With sushi on them. So I guess you have, uh, sushi on you.”

“Yummy sushi,” Buffy said, feeling her cheeks get a little hot. She’d put them on after patrol, even though she was hardly going to sleep at all, because… she’d felt really yummy.

Spike had made her feel yummy.

She was, apparently, delicious, and not in the usual vampire way.

“They do look yummy,” Willow agreed, going all subdued again.

Buffy shifted uncomfortably. “I’m sorry I haven’t caught Harmony yet,” she said softly, feeling guilty. If she hadn’t promised Spike not to hunt, she probably would have found her by now. It wasn’t like Harmony was the smartest tool in the vampire shed. “You must be worried she’s going to come after you again.”

“What?” Willow blinked, then laughed. “Yeah. Yeah, that’s… totally what I’m worried about.”

“I knew it.” Buffy stood resolutely. “Well, don’t worry about it any more. I may have been slacking, but from now on I am totally your avenging angel.” _At least between the hours of three and six am. Until Xander finally spills the beans, at least…._

“Thanks.” Willow bit her lip. “Buffy you’re really okay? You’re not….”

“I am totally okay,” Buffy said firmly, pushing aside the sudden thought she’d had, that maybe it was good if Xander waited just a little bit to spill the beans. Not too long. Maybe a couple more nights? Just a little more time she could feel… yummy. That was okay, too. Better than okay.

Willow sighed. “Okay. That’s… okay.”

“And don’t you worry. I’ll hunt down Harmony for you. I mean, she has to be around here somewhere.”

*

“It has to be around here somewhere!”

Harmony planted her hands on her hips, glaring around Spike’s room. Not under the mattress -- though he had a bunch of chains there, ew. Not in the pockets of any of his jeans, not the ones in the dirty laundry or the ones folded in the trunk. Not even in that cardboard box he’d told her never, ever, ever to touch, which just had some dumb records in it. Not even CDs! Stupid old vinyl records that were probably, like, a hundred years old! And he totally wasn’t wearing it, either -- and how lame was that? After all that work he’d put in with poor, dusty Brian, he didn’t even use the thing he’d been searching for!

Spike didn’t deserve the Gem of Amara.

Harmony did.

And Harmony was totally going to take it. Just as soon as she found it.

Parker looked up from the box he was rifling through. “What are we looking for again?”

“A ring,” Harmony said for what had to be the millionth time. “It’s… I don’t know, green.”

He shrugged negligently and got back to searching like he didn’t care, which made Harmony even madder. Parker had been giving her the cold shoulder ever since she staked that other girl vampire she’d caught him making out with, which was totally unfair. She was his sire, and she’d, like, bestowed on him the honor of having sex with her, but was he even grateful? No, he was still trying to make it with every girl that came into the lair. Even the food ones. He was the worst minion ever.

Just like Spike was the worst boyfriend ever.

She’d totally trusted him when he said he was going to kill the slayer as soon as he found the ring. She’d known in her heart, even when he broke up with her, that he loved only her, Harmony, the sweet, beautiful vampire who had opened her loving arms when he was all wounded and stuff, and that when he was done he would come back to her and everything would be perfect again.

Except he hadn’t killed the slayer. Each night he’d gone out to meet her, and each night he’d returned smelling just a little bit more slayer-y, until lately Harmony had realized just what Spike smelled like, just what he’d been doing with the slayer instead of killing her. It was totally sick and depraved. Spike was the worst boyfriend -- the worst _vampire_ ever. Doing _that _with the slayer!

He hadn’t even done that with her yet.

Well, okay, so he’d offered, but Harmony had been a bit weirded out by it, and so she’d said no, because she wasn’t that kind of girl, even as a vampire. She had standards, and in her experience guys liked to get blow jobs all right but the other way around was kind of gross and embarrassing. Guys didn’t really _like_ it. And good girlfriends didn’t expect it.

She should have known Buffy had no standards at all. In fact, Spike and Buffy were both so lame, they totally deserved each other. And Harmony, who was actually a vampire worthy of the name, deserved the vampire Holy Grail.

“It’s my ring,” she said fiercely, stomping her foot. “Mine!”

“If it’s yours, why can’t you describe it?” Parker muttered.

“It’s… it’s just hard to describe, okay?”

He shrugged again. “Well, no rings here. Just a bunch of old Rolling Stone magazines.”

Harmony glared around the room again. They’d gone into all the boxes, gone through all the chests and trunks, looked under and on top of everything. She’d even looked behind his stupid big bookcase, all full of lame books that she’d once thought meant Spike was smart.

Well, he wasn’t so smart after all. He’d totally fallen for her pretend tears and let her live, which had been really stupid of him. He probably thought she was still waiting for him to come back, that she was still his girl. He thought she was too stupid to know when she was being played.

Which was funny, because now she was the one playing him.

“Put it all back,” she sighed, waving a hand in Parker’s direction. “He’ll be back from his stupid mission too soon for us to look more. I need something to eat. We’ll go hunt and try again tomorrow.”

“Back from his mission? You mean back from having sex with the slayer?” Parker folded the box back up and shoved it back in its corner.

“Spike’s not having sex with her,” Harmony said, rolling her eyes. “He’s just… he’s just, you know, doing… that stuff. He promised they wouldn’t have sex.”

Parker raised his eyebrows. “Oral sex is sex.”

“No, it’s not!”

“It’s right there in the term. Oral _sex._”

“Yeah, but it’s not _sex_ sex.”

He rolled his eyes right back. “Oh, so I can go do that to Ruby and you won’t mind? Since it’s not sex?”

“No!” Harmony folded her arms. “Look, stop arguing with me like you know more than me. I’m the sire. You’re the minion.”

“Yeah, you’ve said that before.” Parker looked at her as he shoved the last box back in place. “And Spike’s the Big Bad.”

Harmony smiled evilly, because, hello! Evil! “Not for long, he’s not.”

*

Buffy stood alone in front of the restaurant’s kiosk, waiting for the maître d' to return from seating the couple ahead of her. It was a fancier restaurant than she’d expected from Spike’s talk, actual real candles and chandeliers and cut-crystal glassware and heavy tablecloths so long that they pooled on the ground; she was pretty certain most of the jewels flashing from diners’ ears and hands and throats were actual diamonds. Maybe she had the wrong place?

Their second date at Xander’s workplace had gone well until it hadn’t. The came, they drank, they danced -- and then they almost got bowled over by a bunch of literal Neanderthals barrelling out of the corner booth. Buffy had subdued them quickly, Spike looking on with glittering eyes, and then Xander had helped them load the unconscious prehistoric jerks into someone’s SUV to sleep off their evolutionary regression -- Xander had tried to explain how it was something about the beer, and that it would wear off eventually, but it hadn’t really made much sense. What had made sense was when Xander took off his apron, balled it up, and threw it back towards the pub.

“I quit this stupid job!” He’d glared at Buffy and Spike, mouth gaping open and closed a few times like he didn’t know what to say, and finally sighed, resigned. “Have a nice date.”

He’d stomped off to his car, and Buffy and Spike had shrugged and run off to their crypt, where they had made use of Buffy’s vibrator until they were both shaking with exhaustion.

Angel still hadn’t shown up.

“Tomorrow,” Spike had said when they were parting at her dorm. “Got a surprise for you. Go to the restaurant at this address. Wear a dress. Something posh.” He handed her a folded slip of paper, kissing her knuckles. “I’ll meet you there.”

“What, Xander got a new job already? Or is Giles trying out a new career?”

“None of your mates will be there, love. Just us.”

“That’s not part of our plan,” she whispered.

“It is now. Just be there. Reservation’s for seven o’clock.”

The fervency in his voice had made her shiver, and she’d trembled as she changed for patrol, though she’d steadied out as she fell into the rhythm of hunting. What the hell was he planning? And why did she feel, deep down inside, that it wasn’t something she had to fear?

Things were definitely getting weird.

The maître d' returned, looking at her curiously. She supposed she didn’t really fit in -- even her nicest dress screamed “middle-class college girl” and she definitely wasn’t wearing diamonds, but she smiled and brazened it out.

“I’m supposed to have a reservation for seven? Um, Buffy Summers?”

His face cleared. “Ah, yes. Miss Summers. Right this way.”

_Guess this is the right place after all._ She followed him to a round table in the corner, large enough to seat four.

There was only one place setting.

“I think there might be a mistake,” she murmured. “I thought I was, um, meeting someone here.”

The maître d' smiled, pulling out her chair for her. “No mistake, Miss Summers. The reservation was for one diner. I am also to advise you that the bill and gratuity have been taken care of. Your drinks and meal will be out shortly.”

Buffy let him scoot her in, confused, setting her purse on one of the unoccupied chairs. She’d been seated in the corner, facing the room, and she scanned the faces of the diners and waiters quickly, hoping to catch a glimpse of Spike wherever he was hiding. But no dice. He was one hundred percent not there.

“What the hell, Spike,” she muttered, lifting the intricately folded napkin off the plate and draping it in her lap.

There was a folded piece of paper underneath.

Glancing around nervously, she unfolded the piece of paper. It had been ripped off a waiter’s order pad, not neatly, and had a single sentence scrawled in lazy capital letters.

_SAY MY NAME THREE TIMES WHEN YOU READ THIS NOTE._

Buffy rolled her eyes. “Seriously? What a drama king. You’re not Beetlejuice.” She sighed. “Spike, Spike, Spike.”

Cool fingers curled around her ankle. “Hello, love,” came his voice from under the table.

She managed to cut off her shriek, but she couldn’t quite stop the instinctive kick. It connected with what was definitely a body. Spike’s body. Spike’s body under the table.

Spike was under the table.

“Bloody hell,” Spike hissed. “There went my spleen again.”

“Sorry!” Buffy hissed back. “But what the hell are you doing down there?”

“Dinner with my woman,” he purred.

“Seriously? What, am I supposed to pass you treats under the table, like a dog? This is a really dumb way to save date money.”

“Got all the dinner I need right here,” he whispered, and then his hands were on her ankles again, stroking slowly up her calves to her knees, and oh god. He had to be joking. He couldn’t be….

“Spike!” she squeaked as his hands started to push her knees apart. “What the hell?”

“Don’t worry, love. They’re very discreet here.” His thumbs traced gentle circles on her inner thighs.

“This is insane.” Buffy plastered a smile on her face, just in case any fellow diners were looking her way. “How did you even come up with this?”

“Poker mate works back of house here. Owes me a whole litter of Siamese. Told him I’d wipe the slate clean, he arranged this for me.” His palms flattened against her thighs, pushing them fractionally wider. “Not like it hasn’t been done before. Reason they’ve got these long tablecloths. Speaking of which….” Buffy looked down and watched as Spike’s hands pushed the tablecloth hem all the way up to her waist, draping it on either side of her chair. “There. Now I can see. Nice dress, love. You look good in black.”

“That is entirely beside the point. What made you think I’d go along with this?”

His fingers started tracing circles on her thighs again, each circle moving infinitesimally higher. “Got you hot when I talked to you in the pub. Wasn’t just the words I was saying. Made you hot to hear me saying all those dirty things where people could hear, with people watching.” His fingers were halfway up her thighs now, and oh god, Buffy couldn’t help it; she opened to him like a flower. “And in the alley. You wanted to come, but more than that, you wanted to come _there_, where any-bloody-body could walk around the corner and see you getting off. Makes you hot, thinking that people know what you’re doing, that they can see.” His thumbs paused just shy of her panties and his hands withdrew. “But if I’m wrong, if this isn’t turning you on, don’t have to do a bloody thing. You can eat and drink and I’ll sit on my arse down here and we can have a lovely, civil conversation. Tell you some more stories, or you can tell me yours. Love to hear how you did in the Judge, Angelus was less than forthcoming on that one. Just pass me my drink, there’s a love.”

Buffy blinked and looked up to see a waiter approaching her table with a tray of drinks. He set them in front of her, one crystal goblet of water and two bulbous glasses full of yellowish slush, each garnished with a pineapple wedge, a maraschino cherry, and a silly paper umbrella.

“Here you go, Miss Summers. So sorry for the wait.”

“What… what are those?” she said, her voice sounding a little higher than usual. Which she supposed was to be expected.

“Oh, the piña coladas that were ordered. You did want two, right?”

Buffy looked at them, head whirling. “Yes,” she said quietly. “Yes, I did want two.”

The waiter smiled, gave a little half-bow, and headed off.

Spike’s open hand emerged from beneath the tablecloth. “Pass it on down.”

Buffy’s voice shook. “You’re joking.”

“Not bloody joking.” His fingers wiggled.

“You’re going to make a mess,” she argued in a low voice.

“Won’t get any on your dress,” he argued back. “And I knew your bloody white hat conscience would get in the way. Brought a towel.”

His hand disappeared and Buffy felt the rough softness of terrycloth against her calves; as if in a trance, she lifted up in her seat so Spike could slide the towel under her thighs and push the hem of her dress up to her waist. “People will know!” She looked down, certain that it would be obvious, but she looked perfectly respectable all the way down to where the tablecloth draped over her lap, even though she could feel that everything below there was bare, nothing between her and Spike but the lacy thong panties she’d worn for him.

“Only if you let them know.” His hand poked out again. “Now pass it down.”

Buffy swallowed and carefully handed one of the piña coladas down, setting it in Spike’s grasping hand.

“Ta, love.” Buffy heard a rustling under the table. “Now, whatever you do, don’t scream.”

His touch, when it came, was surprisingly tame, his fingers curling loosely around her ankles.

“Love the shoes,” he murmured.

“I don’t usually wear heels,” she said, taking a sip of her water. “They suck for fighting.”

His hands caressed her calves tenderly. “Wouldn’t want to take one to the face.”

“Well, good thing you’re on the straight and narrow, then.” She shifted under his caresses, sipping more water. “We didn’t do the crystals.”

“Don’t need to do yours,” he chuckled, fingers tracing feather-light around the backs of her knees. “Know you haven’t killed me yet. Happy to do mine now, if you like.”

“Later is fine,” Buffy said faintly. “When I can see your face.”

“Just as well,” he said in a voice like silk. “Right now, I solemnly swear I am up to no good.” His lips brushed the inside of her knee.

She shivered. “Did you just quote Harry Potter?”

He kissed a little further up her thigh. “Might have done.”

“You read the Harry Potter books.”

“Read lots of things. Lift up, love.”

Buffy lifted up in her chair, feeling Spike’s fingers curling into the strings of her thong, tugging it down her thighs. “The waiter’s coming.”

“Mmm. Appetizers.” Spike tugged on her chair, pulling it further under the table until her belly was right up against the edge. “Don’t mind if I do.”

Buffy looked up at the waiter as he set a plate of bacon-wrapped asparagus in front of her, trying to keep her face neutrally pleasant as Spike trailed tender kisses up the inside of her thigh. “Thank you,” she managed to say in an almost-normal voice.

“Main course will be out shortly. How are your drinks?” He either didn’t notice or was choosing not to notice that one of the drinks had mysteriously disappeared.

“Oh.” Buffy hadn’t even touched her piña colada; she took a quick sip. “Mmm. Good.”

“More water?”

Spike’s lips were getting into dangerous territory. “Oh, not just now. I’m good.”

The waiter departed and Buffy heaved a sigh of relief that nearly turned into a groan as Spike’s hands pressed her legs wider. She could faintly hear him panting, little gusts of cool air on her skin.

“Your drink have a cherry?” he said, voice rough.

Buffy blinked in surprise. “Yes?”

“So does mine.” And then Buffy felt it, something icy-cool and wet and smooth against her clit. She barely managed not to jump. “All round and plump and sweet. You like cherries, love?”

She stared at her drink as he moved the cherry in a slow circle. “Yes.”

“Put it in your mouth.”

She reached out, took the cherry by the stem, and slid it between her lips. “Mmm.”

“Don’t swallow it yet,” he purred. “Just suck on it.”

And suddenly the sensation of the cherry on her was replaced with the cool firmness of his lips; he wrapped them around her clit and sipped tenderly, rhythmically, sometimes flicking lightly with his tongue, then bringing the cherry back to roll it over her, and she found her mouth matching his rhythm, sucking on the cherry as he sucked on her, sensation building and building as she stared unseeing across the restaurant, and she closed her eyes tight as a sharp little orgasm rocked through her, her mouth crushing the cherry as she held back a moan, the juices flowing over her tongue.

Spike groaned faintly beneath the table. “Bloody hell, Slayer.” His tongue lapped desperately at her, butterfly strokes on her trembling flesh.

Buffy swallowed the cherry, feeling faint.

“Knew this would get you hot,” he muttered between licks. “You’re like a bloody string of firecrackers, all ready to go off.”

“Am I?” She felt like exploding, all right, with lust and a vague terror. But… nobody seemed to have noticed that she’d just come, here in their little corner. Not even a suspicious sidelong glance.

The frantic licks slowed, became soothing. “Gonna make you wait for the next one. Eat. Your food’s getting cold.”

Buffy speared one of the bacon-wrapped bundles of asparagus on her fork, regarding it thoughtfully. “Are these supposed to have some secret double meaning?”

“Like what, love?”

“They’re all… phallic.”

He laughed shortly. “Wasn’t my intention, but by all means, do feel free to imagine.”

Buffy took a bite, making a moan of exaggerated pleasure around the mouthful.

He growled into her crotch in response, licking harder again.

Buffy relaxed into the licks, feeling more in control. “Are you touching yourself down there?”

“A bit occupied,” he muttered.

“Hmm.” She ate another of the appetizers, confidence growing. “I think you should.”

“Tonight’s about you, love.”

“Yesterday was about me,” she said softly. “And the day before that. I… I want it to be about you, too. About us.” He didn’t answer, just licking and licking, and she smiled and curled one of her heeled feet around his back. “Unzip your jeans, Spike.”

“What?” The word was an explosion of air against her sensitive skin.

“Unzip your jeans. I… I want you to touch yourself.” She closed her eyes briefly, gathering courage, but… this was who she was now. This was the Buffy who asked for what she wanted. “I want you to come while you’re going down on me.”

The licking stopped. She felt his forehead pressed briefly against her thigh as he muttered something under his breath, and then she heard the growl of his zipper, a faint oath whispered into her skin, and then his mouth was on her again, urgent, like he’d opened a floodgate.

“That’s it,” Buffy whispered, opening to him, rocking her pelvis into his tongue. “Don’t hold back.” She speared another appetizer on her fork, nibbling at it as he devoured her, feeling how he’d released control, feeling him getting carried away, the roughness of his mouth as he sucked and nibbled and grunted and she ate and ate, relishing the knowledge that he was pleasuring himself as he pleasured her, his hand fisted around his cock, pumping and pumping, until at last he latched onto her clit and just sucked, relentless, and she closed her eyes like she was savoring the flavor of the morsel in her mouth as she felt him shudder, felt the splash of his come against her leg, and then his hands were on her thighs, wet with his spendings, his tongue focused and lethal, and she shuddered to completion, quivering and shaking as he gently soothed her tremblings with his mouth.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered when she’d stilled. “Was going to make you wait.”

Buffy stared at her empty plate, vaguely astonished that she’d eaten it all, and then she glanced guiltily around the room, but… well, if anyone had noticed her in ecstasy over here, they weren’t going to acknowledge it.

“How was your appetizer?”

Buffy blinked up at the waiter, who had… hopefully not been there very long, though his courteous smile wasn’t giving anything away. “Good. It was… it was really good.” Spike was still nuzzling at her nethers, planting tender kisses on her thighs, but she was getting used to the surreal divided world, the perfectly normal restaurant world and the blissfully carnal world under the tablecloth.

The waiter smoothly picked up the empty plate. “More water?”

Her glass was empty, too. “Yes, please.”

He expertly splashed water and ice into the goblet and whooshed away.

“Please tell me you tipped more than twenty percent,” Buffy murmured.

“Can’t have word getting back to your mates that I’m an evil low tipper,” he snarked into her thigh. “Paid thirty percent in advance, with a bonus tenner if I’m pleased with my lady’s dinner experience when you walk out the door.”

Buffy snuck a hand under the tablecloth to ruffle Spike’s hair, loosening the gelled waves. “No stealing the money?”

“Know your rules,” he muttered, voice embarrassed.

“Good.” Buffy reached out and toyed with the bamboo umbrella in her drink. “How’s your piña colada?”

He nibbled delicately on her thigh. “Saving it for the main course.”

“Then I’ll save mine, too.” Buffy took a drink of water instead, fortifying herself, because she may as well go all in. “Spike, I, um… I wasn’t kidding about making this about you, too.”

“You just did,” he said in a low voice.

“No, I mean… more.” Another sip of water and a deep breath. “Spike, I want to… to give you a blow job.”

His fingers clutched at her calves. “What, now?”

“No… not right now, obviously. But… I want to.” She sipped more water. “Is that okay?”

“Is it bloody okay, she asks,” Spike muttered, a quiet laugh bursting out of him.

Buffy poked with her foot, not too hard. “It’s not funny. I mean… I’ve never done it before. I might be really, really bad.”

“Not likely.” His tongue started tracing lazy stripes along her thighs again. “Got a bloody gift, you have.”

“You’ll tell me?” Buffy poked with her foot again. “You’ll tell me if I’m doing it wrong? Promise you’ll be honest?”

“Promise,” he growled under the table, and then the waiter was back, depositing a plate of pasta in front of her. Buffy smiled and nodded and thanked him, but what she really wanted was for him to go away, because it was main course time, and that meant it was… main course time. Thankfully, he didn’t seem inclined to linger, and soon he was gone.

“Tortellini in cream sauce,” Buffy said softly. “Why tortellini?”

“Because,” Spike murmured, lips traveling up the inside of her thigh. “They remind me of this.” He swirled the tip of his tongue around her swollen clit, lavishly. “All curled and plump and drenched in the most delicious sauce…. Eat one.”

Buffy popped one in her mouth. “Mmm,” she moaned, half because of the flavor and half because of what Spike was doing, tongue swirling and swirling, and then she gasped as something cold and wet joined the sensations of his tongue. “Oh, god,” she bit out, furtively glancing around.

“There you go, love. You just eat your dinner while I savor my drink.”

And savor he did, all urgency gone as he just sipped at her, tongue swirling and stroking, occasionally splashing a bit more of his piña colada on her, and she ate tortellini after tortellini, her tongue swirling around each nub of pasta in an echo of his, hovering in a haze of arousal, sipping at her own piña colada each time he splashed her, smiling absently and gazing out at the vista of sparkling diamond diners, vaguely amazed that she wasn’t sending off sparks and firebursts herself, and then the tortellini was gone, and the drink, and Spike was still toying with her like he had all the time in the world.

“I’m done eating,” she whispered reluctantly when the waiter had cleared her plate.

“Dessert,” he said gruffly, and kept licking, and then the waiter returned and deposited an artfully-plated piece of tiramisu in front of her, slipping away with another bland smile.

“Did you just pick out the most fattening things on the menu?” Buffy muttered in an aside as she picked up her spoon.

Spike snorted. “Who bloody cares about fat?” He kissed the inside of her thigh, gently. “Made me think of you. Sweet cream, rich chocolate, the bite of coffee…. Now you enjoy your dessert, and let me enjoy mine.

And oh, lazy times were over. Buffy’s hand shook as she spooned bites of tiramisu into her mouth, because he was turning all that sweet banked arousal into a bonfire, vibrating his tongue relentlessly against her clit, sliding his fingers deep inside her; she closed her eyes with each mouthful, the rich flavor melding with the sensations coming from under the tablecloth, and as her orgasm built and built she bit down hard on the metal spoon to keep from groaning, and then she was crashing, she was coming, oh god, her legs were shaking and spasming and his tongue just kept going and going, prolonging the ecstasy, until at last it started to recede, leaving her boneless and quivering.

She opened her eyes, unable to even look around the room to see who had noticed her mini-apocalypse, hardly even caring at this point, and methodically scooped up the last bits of her dessert, popping it in her mouth.

“There you go, love.” Spike’s voice was smug. “Let’s just get you cleaned up.” She felt the roughness of terrycloth between her legs as Spike scrubbed her spendings away with the towel, then the length of her legs, and then tugged her dress back into place.

“My panties…” she said softly.

“Meet me out back,” Spike said in a non-reply. “I’ll take you home.”

“No,” she whispered. “Not yet.”

Spike lifted her foot then, kissing her instep just above the straps of her shoes. “All right. I won’t take you home. Not yet. But meet me.”

“Yes.” Buffy made a show of gathering her purse. “So, how are you going to get out of here?”

“Don’t you worry, love. Got a plan. Very subtle.” He caressed her ankles again. “Just tell the maître d' to tell Goujk that your meal was bloody perfect.”

“Goujk?” Buffy frowned. “That doesn’t sound like a name.”

“It’s a demon name. What, you think I play poker with humans? Back of house most restaurants is demons these days. Bloody labor laws.”

“That’s…. I didn’t know that.”

“We can talk about the underground demon economy of Sunnydale another time.” His hands clutched at her ankles. “Go. Meet me out back.”

“I will.” Buffy stood on shaky legs and walked away from the table. Was that couple at the next table over giving her the stinkeye? Had they noticed what was going on?

Suddenly she didn’t care so much.

“Thank you,” she said to the maître d' when she reached the entrance. “Please tell Goujk my meal was... wonderful.”

He eyed her curiously. “You know Goujk?”

“Friend of a friend,” Buffy said lightly.

Buffy’s hand was on the door handle when a huge crash came from behind her. She turned to see that a tray of plates had tumbled to the ground near the kitchen door, her waiter frantically falling to his knees to retrieve crockery as all the diners watched. He looked up, met her gaze…

...and winked.

She turned quickly back towards her abandoned table -- which she suddenly realized had a door right nearby leading to the restrooms. And maybe to a back door? The door was just closing.

“Smooth, Spike,” she muttered, and headed out the door.

She hastened around the building, mincing along on tiptoe because she was pretty sure her teensy heels and shaky thighs were not going to work well together. As she rounded the second corner, she caught a flicker of movement out of the corner of her eye and struck, lashing out and catching Spike by the lapel of his duster just as he was moving towards her. She flung him up against the wall, stepping in close to grab his other lapel.

“You,” she said calmly, “are about as subtle as an anvil to the head.”

He shrugged, grinning. “Worked, didn’t it?”

“Amazingly, it did. Why do I feel like that’s the only plan you’ve ever had go according to plan?”

“Oi!” He glared down his nose at her. “Had lots of plans go right.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Not from where I’m standing.”

“We stopped Angelus and Acathla, didn’t we?”

“Well, there’s one. One in, what, a hundred years? Two hundred?”

He drew his head back, nostrils flaring. “I’m only a hundred and twenty-six. And tonight went bloody perfect,” he snarled. “You’re just pissed off because you weren’t in control.”

“I’m not mad.” Buffy yanked him down for a kiss, pouring everything she was into it.

He groaned, kissing her back hard. He tasted like coconut and pineapples and her.

“I’m not mad,” Buffy repeated when she came up for air. “I just… I gotta give you grief, you know?” She looked down at her hands, smoothing out his lapels. “It’s who we are.”

She tilted her head up for another kiss and he wrapped his arms around her, leaning back against the brick alley wall.

“It’s you,” he said at last, snuggling her into his shoulder.

“What’s me?”

“You’re why my plans bloody fail,” he grumbled. “Every plan I’ve had go cockeyed in the past few years, it’s been because I was going up against you. The ones that worked -- Acathla, that bloody mess last year, this evening -- they were because we were working together.”

“Huh.”

“Come on,” Spike said huskily. “You don’t want to walk miles across town in those fetching heels. I’ve got a car.” He slung his arm around her shoulder as they started to walk down the alley.

“I absolutely don’t,” Buffy agreed, feeling mellow and loose and… well, not quite done with the date. “I should have worn stompy boots.”

His hand tightened on her shoulder. “Wouldn’t complain.”

She punched him lightly in the ribcage. “And who says I wasn’t in control?”

He shrugged. “My plan, wasn’t it?”

Buffy glared up at him. “Your plan that only went right because I was part of it.”

He shrugged again.

“If I’d said no, would you have stopped?”

He rolled his eyes. “Bloody hell. Of course. No fun otherwise.”

“So I was in control.”

“We were a team,” he said after a bit. “Wasn’t one of us in charge.”

That seemed right to her. “Because we’re partners. Revenge-partners.”

He stepped in front of her, his arm dropping off her shoulder. “Not just for revenge.”

She looked up at him, chin proud. “All right. Not just for revenge.” She bit her lip. “Tonight wasn’t for revenge.”

“It bloody well wasn’t.” Spike glared down at her for a bit more before he shrugged. “Just… wanted to.”

Buffy grabbed his sleeve and slung his arm back around her, starting to walk again. After a bit, she let her hand slide down the leather to his hand, weaving her fingers into his. “That’s fair.”

They walked nearly a block in silence before he spoke again. “Good plan, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Buffy admitted shyly. “Really good plan.”

She knew it was Spike’s car as soon as she saw it -- a monstrous black boat of a car, antique but still sexy, with fins and striping, looking like the bad guy’s car in Grease. She half expected little saws to pop out of the hubcaps. “Wow. That’s a car.”

Spike ran a hand over a fin as they approached it. “Baby’s been with me for decades. Bought her brand new.”

“Mmm.” Buffy glanced in the window. “Big back seat.” And she ducked back under Spike’s arm, twisting in behind him to slam him face first up against the car, his arm twisted behind him.

He was barely fazed, teasing eyes glancing over his shoulder. “Didn’t steal the car, you know.”

“Oh, won it at poker?”

“Something like that.”

Buffy twisted his arm a little harder. “You are such a liar.”

His eyelids drooped. “You love it when I lie. Gives you an excuse to treat me rough.”

“You love it when I treat you rough.”

“Got me there.”

Buffy pressed him into the car with her body, knowling she was smaller than him but stronger, knowing he felt it, too. “I told you I didn’t want to go home yet.”

He shrugged again. “Can go for a drive instead. Take you along the coast, down to the beach.”

“Or,” she said softly, shaking inside, “you can get in the back seat of your car and I can suck on your cock. Your choice.”

He was silent for a long time, eyes wide on her face, his body quivering against hers.

“Yeah,” he said at last in a hushed voice. “Let’s do that.”

Hands fumbled together for the door handle, bodies tumbled and twisted, but at last they were inside, Spike sitting leaning up against the far door, Buffy half on the seat as she popped the button of his jeans, easing the zipper down.

She’d seen it before, his proud erection, had seen and stroked and pleasured, but now she’d asked and he’d granted, and she’d given herself permission to taste, and she was terrified but determined. She wanted. She wanted so much, to give him pleasure like he’d been giving her, to understand why he loved it so much when she let him devour her, just to _know_, and it was with near-reverence that she set her lips to the head of his cock, kissing him sweetly.

“God,” he swore, his head falling back against the window.

“Is that okay?” she whispered, her lips brushing him.

“It’s perfect,” he said fervently, stroking her cheek.

“I don’t know what to do,” she said softly, meeting his eyes. “I want it to be… to be good.”

“Do what you want,” Spike said, just as softly. “Just play. And it will be.”

Buffy started with her tongue, swirling it around the bulbous head, thinking of tortellini and tiramisu, though he tasted altogether different, musky and salty and coppery, but the taste made her shiver, all the way down to her toes, as she licked and lapped and teased at all his contours, feeling out the shape of him, the way his foreskin slid, the veins and ridges and everything that was Spike. She tongued gently at his balls -- the books had said they were sensitive -- and licked long strokes from base to tip, and then she wrapped her mouth around the tip and sucked.

He swore again, hands running through her hair.

“Not good?” she said anxiously.

“Good,” he breathed. “Brilliant. Do it again.”

And so she sucked again, and again, feeling his cock jump under her lips, and then she took him deeper, until his cock was grazing the top of her mouth, sucking again, and then a little deeper, and a little deeper, but she could feel herself starting to gag, so she pulled back, letting him plop out of her mouth, panting and licking around the tip again.

“Use your teeth,” he whispered urgently.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” she protested.

“Don’t bloody bite it off,” he laughed brokenly. “Just… nibble.”

And so she nibbled, down one side and up the other, listening to his groans, careful not to go too hard, thinking of how he’d nibbled on her, what had felt good, what had felt wonderful, and then she sucked on the tip some more, licking salty drops off him, and then ran her tongue along the silky underside of his cock, and then she took him inside, as deep as she could, and let him slide out. In again, and out. In and out.

“God, you’re hot,” he moaned. “Your mouth is so hot.”

She suddenly had a thought, a terrible thought, and she couldn’t banish it, even as she pumped his cock in and out of his mouth.

_That’s not the only part of me that’s hot._

And she couldn’t stop thinking about it, now that she’d started. Couldn’t stop imagining what it would feel like to have his cock inside her, to have him on top of her, and oh, she wanted it, she wanted him inside her with a terrible, consuming hunger, but… she was terrified.

Utterly, completely terrified.

But god, she was hot, it wasn’t just her mouth, she was quivering and shaking like she had a fever, and she shoved the terror to the back of her brain and stopped pumping for a moment, sucking rhythmically on the head of his cock as her free hand, the one not guiding him into her mouth, slid down her body and hitched up her skirt and slid to her pantyless crotch and started to stroke.

He groaned. “Yes, love. That’s it.” And oh, of course he knew, of course he could smell it, and she laughed around him and started to bob her head on his cock in earnest, sucking and releasing, her mouth slick with saliva, as slick as her clit as she stroked herself. She stroked and sucked and licked when she needed to breathe, and all the time he stroked her hair and her cheeks and muttered filthy encouragement, and then she was coming, she was coming, she could feel it building, and she took his cock as deep as she could and sucked and sucked as she rubbed herself, riding out the orgasm like a wave, and then as her own pleasure ebbed she focused on Spike, driving him in and in to her mouth until she could feel him starting to throb, and then there it was, he was spurting into the back of her mouth, salty and sour, and she remembered Cordy telling her something about swallowing and so she tried, but it was too much, some dribbled out her mouth even as she sucked, and then he was dragging her up to kiss her, his lips trembling and she kissed him back, feeling dizzy and powerful and womanly, and then he crushed her to his chest, kissing the top of her head, and she hugged him back, lost in the moment.

“Was it okay?” she asked at last.

“Perfect,” he murmured into her hair. “Bloody perfect.”

Buffy curled into her mortal-enemy-slash-partner’s chest and closed her eyes, because it was.


	10. Chapter 10

Spike sauntered into the Bronze, tugging the lapels of his red shirt out from his duster so they lay just right, skittering a finger over the gelled waves of his hair to make sure they hadn’t come disordered in the breeze, settling his duster once again over his shoulders…. Not that he was nervous. Not Spike. He just needed to make sure his costume was squared away before the bloody play began.

Like the Big Bad would ever be nervous about a paltry night out with the Scoobies!

He saw her almost instantly, his eyes drawn to her hair, a gleaming river of gold down her bare back. Brown today, her little handkerchief top, held together with scant white straps and a single white tie at the back, exposing the arch of her spine all the way down to smooth chocolate-brown trousers that hugged her arse like a second skin. Glass beads gleamed from her head and her wrists, rhinestones from her ears, and when she turned her head to speak to one of her mates, the perfection of her profile was like a stake to the heart. She hadn’t seen him yet, but he suspected she sensed him, from the way she’d just arched back, like a cobra coiling to strike, and he knew she was prepared to set their plan in motion. Her plan, murmured to him as they’d cuddled in the back seat of his car.

_The Scoobies are going out tomorrow. Night at the Bronze. Want to up the ante a little?_

And of course he couldn’t say no, not when she’d just unleashed the lethal miracle of her hot mouth on him. So here he was, dressed for battle and ready to put on the performance of his life.

_Showtime._

He strolled over to their table, reaching out to trail his hand over her warm bare shoulder. “Hello, love.”

Buffy turned to greet him, her breath speeding up. “Hello, Spike,” she murmured, meeting his eyes. Her face was glowing and he could hear her heartbeat racing and he leaned down to kiss her, the barest brush of lips but god he was already thinking of how he could kiss her when they were alone.

Her lips trembled as he drew away, and before he could withdraw completely she tilted up her head and caught his earlobe between her teeth, the barest nibble, and then she was looking at him, eyes shining with mirth.

“You look good tonight,” she said softly.

“So do you, my love.” He said his line warmly, kissing her again, then stroking her cheek and her shoulder, settling his fingers between her shoulder blades, just under her soft fall of hair.

Buffy turned away to face her friends. “You guys all know Spike, right?”

Spike settled onto the empty stool at Buffy’s side, prepared to enjoy the fireworks.

Willow smiled brightly. “Hi, Spike! Long time no see.”

Xander raised a hand in silent greeting, eyes bleak but a determined smile on his face.

Well, that was disappointing. Perhaps the third fellow, currently absorbed in the musicians on stage, might deliver some outrage. Spike held out his hand. “Don’t think we’ve met. Name’s Spike.”

His eyes still riveted to the stage, the bloke absently shook Spike’s hand. “Oz.”

Spike felt a little tingle of magic jolt up his arm and narrowed his eyes, regarding the fellow more closely. A subtle sniff confirmed his instincts -- werewolf. He’d have spotted it across the room if he hadn’t been so caught up in the slayer. Interesting.

Willow was glancing between him and Buffy, expression avid. “Are you two… dating?”

“Oh, didn’t Xander tell you? I thought the news would have gotten as far as LA by now.” Buffy set her hand atop Spike’s on the table, casting him an adoring look. “Guess our secret’s out, honey.”

“Oh, wow.” Willow turned her face to Buffy, eyes alight. “I love this part. Don't you love this part? Like, when it's all new, and everything's a discovery?”

Buffy blinked. “Um. I don't know. I guess I do?” She cast a desperate sidelong glance at Spike, who was just as mystified. Weren’t they supposed to be all hysterical and begging Buffy to find a better boyfriend? Spike was evil! Completely, one-hundred-percent evil, and no fit companion for the bloody Chosen One! It was insulting, how accepting they were! He was tempted to bite Buffy now, just to teach them a lesson.

He leaned over and kissed Buffy’s throat instead, just there where her pulse fluttered. “I love _this _part,” he purred, pouring as much deadly insinuation into his voice as he could.

Buffy shivered.

Xander leapt to his feet, mouth gaping open and closed a few times before he managed to get words out. “Who needs another drink? I need a drink.”

Spike grinned at this sign of a chip in the wall of bloody support. “You buying, mate?”

“I’m not…” He jerked as if he had been kicked -- which he might have been, if the stern look on Willow’s face was any indication. “I’m buying this round,” he said glumly.

“Water for me,” Willow said.

“A fine choice. I know Oz wants another Cuba-Libre-extra-lime. Buffy?” He looked hopeful. “Bloody Mary?”

“Xander, I am never going to want a Bloody Mary.” Buffy glanced at Spike; he caught the saucy flash of her eyes through her eyelashes. “Piña colada.”

Bloody hell, just her ordering a drink had him salivating like Pavlov’s bloody dog. “Make that two,” Spike said roughly, brushing a lock of Buffy’s hair off her shoulder.

Xander grinned, eyes wild. “No blood for you? Bit of O-neg?” He jerked again -- definitely a kick this time -- but didn’t back down.

Spike looked at Buffy as soulfully as he could manage, under the circumstances. “I’ve given up human blood... for Lent.”

“It’s November,” Xander retorted, eyes narrowing.

“And you’re an expert on vampire holidays, then?” Spike regarded him coolly. “A piña colada will do me for now. Ta.”

The wanker made a vaguely-incoherent sound that apparently was supposed to be assent, because he turned and walked stiffly towards the bar.

Willow glared after him for a moment before turning to Spike, eyes wide, a smile fixed to her face. “It’s a good thing you didn’t come earlier,” she said confidingly. “Giles was here.”

“Was he, now?”

Buffy bit her lip, looking at Spike significantly. “He left after the first set of music. But, you know, it’s probably just as well. If Giles knew about us, I just know he’d disapprove.”

“Of course he would,” Spike agreed, affecting a mournful expression. “A foul creature of the night like myself sullying the slayer’s noble virtue? He’d put his foot down for sure.”

“He’d probably have us separated before you could say _bloody hell._”

“He’d stake me for sure.”

Buffy took his hands and he took hers, turning to her in what had to be the most ridiculously false romantic gaze of all time. “Just when we’re so… so _happy,_” she sniffed.

Willow nearly fell over herself to reassure them. “Oh, it’s not so bad.”

“It’s not?” Buffy sniffled, sending Spike another panicked look.

“I mean, look at Xander,” Willow said eagerly.

Spike raised his eyebrows and regarded the former bartender, who was still at the bar, carefully arranging and rearranging their drinks on a tray, far more carefully than was likely necessary. “Must I?”

Willow laughed nervously. “No, I mean… you don’t have to look at him. But, um, he’s got a new girlfriend, and she used to be evil, too.”

Spike bared his teeth. “Used to be?”

Willow either didn’t realize how she’d offended him or didn’t care. “Anya was a vengeance demon for centuries. She granted a wish that made a terrible, awful Sunnydale with no Buffy -- I saw it, it was like hell -- and then when that got canceled out she made me help her conjure up a vampire me, who was super icky and a killer and also had no respect for personal space, and then she even made Xander take her to prom. She was awful. I bet she’s killed more people than you have.”

“Xander’s not the slayer,” Buffy said nervously.

“No, but he’s slayer-adjacent. And, um, look at me. I’m dating….” Her eyes drifted to Oz again and she fell silent, face uncertain. He was back to watching the band, his entire body still with concentration.

“A werewolf?” Spike supplied.

Willow jolted at that, surprise drifting across her face. “Did Buffy…?”

“Can tell.” Spike tapped his nose.

“Vampires have a very keen sense of smell,” Buffy explained, as if Spike hadn’t had to explain that to her just a few weeks ago.

“Oh.” Willow laughed awkwardly. “Sorry. I just, you know. It’s kind of personal, so I didn’t think Buffy would… um, unless you guys have been talking a lot.”

"We have been talking a lot," Buffy said with perfect honesty. "But I didn't tell any other people's secrets. Just mine," she added coyly. "But since you figured it out yourself, I'll just add that Oz is a very responsible werewolf. Locks himself up for the three days of the full moon so there's no rampageyness."

Sounded dull to Spike, but he supposed it kept Buffy's hand off the stake.

Willow's eyes flickered to Buffy. “How long have you guys been... together?”

“A few weeks. But it feels like forever,” Buffy sighed, turning a melting gaze upon Spike. “Like we’ve always been together.”

“You never said,” Willow murmured, and there it was, another crack, the witch’s lower lip was trembling.

“Oh, Willow.” Buffy reached across the table to take her friend’s hand. “I wanted to tell you. I just… I thought you wouldn’t understand. You wanted me to find a nice normal human guy, like Parker. And I know our history with Spike hasn’t been the best. He was kind of mean to you the last time you saw him, wasn’t he?”

“He did, um, threaten to shove a broken bottle into my face,” Willow admitted with a sheepish laugh, glancing at Spike again, and oh, that was a definite crack, a big one. He smiled at her wolfishly, putting the pressure on.

“That was when he was in love with Drusilla,” Buffy said in a rush. “Now he’s in lo-- he’s my man.” She turned to Spike with limpid eyes. “You wouldn’t do that now, would you, honey? You promised.”

“That I did.”

Willow’s eyes lit up with realization. “Oh! The crystals! My crystals!”

“He promised not to hurt or kill any humans or drink any human blood. For me!” Buffy smiled at him. “Isn’t it romantic?”

Xander returned to the table then, his face that of a man on his way to the gallows. “Isn’t what romantic? No. Don’t tell me.”

“You want to guess?” Buffy chirped perkily.

“No. I’m not going to guess. Just… don’t tell me.” He distributed the drinks, settling uneasily into his seat.

“Here, love,” Spike purred, plucking the cherry from his drink and holding it out to Buffy. She closed her lips around it slowly, eyes warm, sucking the cherry off the stem. She chewed it deliberately and swallowed.

“Want mine?” she said, voice low and sultry.

“Later,” he murmured, licking cherry juice off his fingers. “When we’re alone.”

Xander choked on his soda.

"Xander," Willow said reprovingly. "I was just telling Spike about Anya."

His eyes bugged out slightly. "What about Anya?"

"You know. How she's your girlfriend, and how she used to be all about liquefying innards."

"Glad to hear you lot are in favor of forgiving centuries of mayhem," Spike breezed, though he was starting to get pissed off again. Vengeance demons were at least nominally concerned with justice, which made them entirely less evil than him. No comparison at all.

"That's different," Xander sniffed sullenly. "Anya's not a demon any more."

"Coulda fooled me," Willow muttered in an aside to Oz. The werewolf didn't respond, not even a flicker of an eyelid, and her face fell into that uncertain look again, eyes flickering to the stage and back.

Buffy cast another sidelong glance at Spike, but not a flirty one. Strangely desperate, like she was hoping Spike would come to the rescue. "You know, Oz, um... Spike likes music a lot. He was telling me about some place he used to go in New York, Heebie-Jeebies?"

"CBGB," Spike corrected under his breath, realizing as he said it that Oz was echoing him.

"Oh!" Buffy's voice was bright with fake surprise. "You know it?"

"Who doesn't?"

Willow timidly raised a hand.

"Music people," Oz clarified, eyes flickering over to Spike with a flare of interest.

"I'm music people," Willow pouted. "I’m a big music fan. I just… only like good music, like Dingoes.” She cast a venomous glance at the musicians onstage.

Oz smiled at her briefly. “Dingoes’ biggest fan.” His eyes strayed towards the stage again as well.

Buffy grabbed Spike’s hand. “Anyhow, Spike said he saw lots of bands there before they even became famous. Um, Talking Heads… Blondie….”

“Ooh, I love Debbie Harry!” Willow bubbled. “She was so cute on the Muppet Show.”

“Talking Heads?” Oz turned to face Spike, elbows on the table. “They broke up when I was twelve.”

Spike settled more comfortably on his chair, weaving his fingers into Buffy’s. “Saw their first CBGB gig in ‘75.”

“Opening for the Ramones?”

Spike nodded smugly.

“They do ‘Psycho Killer?’”

“Yeah. Was brilliant. Raw.”

“Man.” Oz sighed. “Not gonna lie, their breakup was harsh. Tears were shed.”

Spike tipped his glass. “Way of the world, mate. All great things come to an end.” He drank, wishing the sweetness of the drink had a twist of Buffy. “Makes life sweeter.”

“Did he do the, um, suit thing? The lead guy.” Willow was leaning forward, too. Even Xander had turned, reluctantly interested.

“Byrne.” Oz supplied.

Spike closed his eyes for a moment, casting back. There had been so many nights at CBGB, the years he’d spent in New York, so many they ran together in his mind like a brilliant tapestry of music and scent and color and sex and blood, but he’d always had an eye out for the new, new music and new experiences and new sights, and that had been a night to remember. “Hadn’t done that look yet. The bass player, she was wearing a jacket, too big for her, going for androgynous, but the rest of the band were just button-downs and trousers. It was just music, stripped down to bare bones.” This had been before he’d learned the slayer was in town, before he’d had a purpose in town, he and Dru just sinking into the sharp sensual darkness of New York nightlife, reveling in the punk scene. New York in the seventies had been bloody magnificent.

Oz had another question then, something about the acoustics of the club, and then Willow followed up with a question about Blondie, and Buffy was hanging on his every word -- part of the act, of course, but she was warm and fragrant and holding his hand, which was pleasant enough -- and he told his stories and bought the table a round of drinks with some of his Amara-crypt dosh and suddenly the live music was ending, loud applause and cheering, and Spike realized he’d been talking for a good hour.

He had been having a bloody conversation. One that he had enjoyed.

With the Scoobies, who also seemed to be having a good time.

_Bugger._

He stopped mid-sentence and sucked back the last of his latest drink, glaring around the table as the applause faded and an alt-rock ballad started playing through the speakers. Willow was crunching on the ice from her water, eyes on her wolf boy, who was looking at the stage again, frowning.

“Back in a sec,” he said, rising. “I need to go talk to George before they pack up.”

Willow gave him a half-hearted wave, her smile almost but not quite reaching her eyes.

Buffy squeezed Spike’s hand -- had they been holding hands this whole time? -- and jerked her head towards the dance floor. “Finally, some music we can dance to. Join me?”

Back on script, they were. About bloody time. He raised their joined hands to kiss the back of hers. “Love to,” he purred, flashing a smug grin in Xander’s direction. The boy was definitely the weakest point in the Scoobies’ acceptance of him; perhaps he just needed another nudge or two to break.

“Thank you,” Buffy murmured as they left the table.

“For what? The drinks?” He slid his arm around her waist, pulling her into a loose embrace as they reached the dance floor.

“For, um, talking.” Buffy glanced up towards the stage, where Oz was deep in conversation with the drummer. “Oz has been acting… kinda weird about this band. The lead singer. He gets all zoney and obsessive, and Willow’s a little upset.” She slipped her arms around his neck, starting to dance.

Spike glanced over to where the vocalist was fiddling with an amp. He’d not really noticed her before, having his own performance to put on, but… He narrowed his eyes, sniffed judiciously. _Ah_. Another bloody werewolf. No wonder the club was all musky tonight. They were coming out of the bloody woodwork. “Understandable.”

Buffy bit her lip, glancing back at their table. “Anyhow, thanks for providing a distraction. Something Willow could be a part of, too.”

Spike growled, annoyed. “Wasn’t providing a bloody public service.”

She laughed up at him. “Don’t worry, Big Bad. I wasn’t going to accuse you of being _nice_.”

“Too right.” Spike pulled her closer. “We dancing or talking, love?”

“Dancing,” she said softly, rolling her body against his. “Showing off public intimacy. Giving everyone else a chance to confer on how much they need to call Giles or Angel to put a stop to this.”

Spike glanced over her shoulder. Willow and Xander seemed to be having an argument at their table, watching them dance. “They’re conferring, all right.”

“Good. So let’s give them something to confer about.”

And so they danced, bodies sliding sensually together, no more words, and after a bit Spike let his eyes drift closed, the better to feel and scent the slayer as she moved. She danced like she fought, instinctively responding to his every move, hinting at vulnerability and then gliding effortlessly into aggression, teasing him with her body until he felt like he’d walked into the sun, his whole self on fire, and he had to open his eyes to make sure they were still in the club.

The song ended and he kissed her, feeling like he was baring his chest for her stake.

Some up-tempo hard rock came on next, and Buffy rolled her eyes. “I am so not in the mood for this one. Back to the table?”

Spike wound his fingers in hers, ignoring how natural it felt. “Think we should disappear for a bit. Let them wonder what we’re doing.”

She raised her eyebrows. “And what will we be doing?”

He raised his eyebrows back. “Snogging.”

“Okay.” She frowned. “Um, which one is snogging again?”

He rolled his eyes. “Kissing.” Though he desperately wanted to take her out back, shag her right up against the wall. That would get the Scoobies on the horn, right enough.

“Good.” She smiled, eyes sultry. “I’ll lead.”

He let her draw him off the dance floor and out under the balcony, behind the spiral stairs. “You wore lip gloss tonight.”

“Because you were supposed to be unexpected,” she said. “So I wore my shiniest lip gloss, to make sure everybody notices. It's in my purse, so that when we go back to the table I can obviously put it on after you’ve kissed it off.”

“You are diabolical.” Spike turned and set her back up against one of the support pillars. Right where the Scoobies could still see.

“My makeup-fu is strong,” she teased, and then she tilted her head up and he bent down and her lips were a miracle against his, and he was lost, lost in the warmth of her, the taste, the scent, her lips slick and sweet, her tongue sliding against his, her hands clutching at his shoulders, they were fumbling at each other in desperation, and god he wanted her, wanted to shag her right against this pillar, no matter who was watching, and he poured all that lust into his kiss, feeling it returned to him like feedback through the amps.

“God,” he muttered when they broke for her to breathe. “How long before I can take you back--” _home _“--to our crypt?”

“Not long,” Buffy reassured him, panting. “Kiss me some more, then we can stop by the table, refresh my lip gloss, and say goodbye to the gang. Drop some hints, to get them all worked up.” She clasped her hands at the nape of his neck. “Okay. I’m done breathing for a bit.”

When they returned to the table, Xander had a mutinous cast to his jaw and Willow had a smile that was far too bright. Oz had returned and was holding Willow’s hand again, though he had an odd frown on his face, like he was trying to remember where he’d put his keys.

“Hi guys!” Willow bubbled, determination writ upon her face. “Have fun, um, dancing?”

“Oh, yeah,” Buffy said sweetly, rummaging in her purse on the table. The table was silent as she elaborately glossed her lips, turning at last to purse them at Spike. “How do I look, honey?”

He grinned. “Edible.”

“Good.” She looked him up and down. “That makes two of us.”

Xander choked, though without the excuse of a drink this time.

“So, I think we’re going to bail,” Buffy said in a matter-of-fact tone of voice. “I have to patrol, um, soon.”

“Not _too _soon,” Spike purred.

“Okay,” Willow said, her smile faltering slightly. “Um, have… have fun.”

Buffy walked around the table, giving quick hugs to each of the Scoobies. “Thanks for being so understanding, guys. I really appreciate your not telling Giles. Or worse, Angel.” Her eyes met Spike’s across the table as she gave a mock shudder. “I hate to think what he’d do to Spike if he found out we were… together.”

Spike smiled. “And happy.”

“So, so happy!” Buffy agreed.

“_Perfectly _happy,” Spike murmured.

Xander flinched. “_Perfectly_? Like a moment of… perfect….” He trailed off, eyes wide.

“Oh, not just a moment,” Spike corrected as Buffy rejoined him. He bent his most adoring look upon her. “I’m hoping for an eternity.”

There, that was what he’d wanted. Three stunned faces as they turned over what he’d said in their rusty noggins, three gradual looks of comprehension as they recognized the inherent threat. (Willow twigged to it first, then Oz; Xander was late to the party, but had the most gratifying look of horror.)

Buffy snuggled up to him. “Isn’t he romantic?” she chirped.

“Yeah,” Willow said weakly. “Romantic.”

Spike envisioned the wall of positive acceptance and support shattering to bits under this latest assault; from the smug sidelong glance Buffy shared with him, she was picturing the very same thing.

_Mission accomplished._

*

Buffy leapt over the cemetery wall, intent on her mission, sick terror roiling in her gut as she ran through the dusk.

_Please be there please be there please be there…._

She burst through the door of the crypt, chest heaving, and nearly collapsed in relief at the sight of Spike's radioactive hair, gleaming in the pale light of a few strategic candles.

"Spike!" she gasped out, then frowned, peering around him. "What's that?"

Spike looked at the contraption he was fiddling with, then back at her. "It's a… never mind what it is. What are you doing here?"

"Is that a heater?"

He rolled his eyes. "Yes. Fine. It's a bloody propane heater. Some bloody self-righteous bitch I know said November was bloody cold. Why are you here?"

"Looking for you, obviously!" Buffy snapped.

"Sun's not even down."

"I know. I--" Buffy ran a hand through her hair, shaking. "I figured out you'd been coming here early, okay?"

Spike stood, jamming his hands in his duster pockets. "What makes you think I--"

"Oh, come off it, Spike! This place could be a spread in Better Crypts and Graveyards Magazine. You think I didn't notice the pillows that keep mysteriously appearing? The way all the dust vanished, the lemon-fresh scent? And the blankets sure aren't washing themselves." She jerked her chin at the floor behind him. "Not to mention the brand-new heater. Which better not be stolen."

"Stolen!" Spike scoffed. "Like I would need to…. All right, so I stole it." He set his jaw mutinously. "I'm evil. I steal things. Come to catch me in the act, then?"

"No, I--" Buffy glanced nervously at the door, the lengthening shadows outside. "Spike, I need your help."

His face softened the barest touch, though his brows were still beetled. "What's wrong?"

"It's Oz. He… he made some… really bad choices. And now Veruca's after Willow and Oz is after Veruca and I was after Oz but I ran into some lame guy in camo and lost sight of him and… I need to find him. Them."

"Who's Veruca?" Spike was already turning off the heater.

"She was the singer the other night. Um, the one Oz…."

"The werewolf. Right. That explains the bloody dart gun. Tranquilizers, yeah?"

Shock froze her for a moment, but Buffy managed to grab Spike's sleeve as he started to move past her. "You knew she was a werewolf?"

Spike gave her a puzzled look. "You didn't?"

"No, of course not! I--" Buffy broke off, looking outside again. "Dammit. The sun's still up. We have to wait."

"Thought you were in a hurry," Spike groused, taking her hand.

"Well, duh, but the cavalry's not going to do much good if you're dust on the wind."

Spike craned his neck to peer past her. "Sun's low enough. There's shade."

Buffy bit her lip. "We can wait," she whispered, tamping down the panic inside her.

"Got to find them before sunset, yeah? Before the wolf takes command. Doesn't leave us much time." And then he grinned like a cross between the Mad Hatter and the Cheshire Cat, smug and insane at the same time. Like a vampire who'd go out for a stroll in the sun. "Though it's touching, your concern for my safety." He kissed her knuckles, released her hand.

"I'm not concerned. I'm just… concerned."

Spike selected one of the blankets from the heap on the sarcophagus. "Been daring the sun for a good century, love. Know just how much I can take. Now, perhaps you could get the door?"

"Well, excuse me for not wanting my partner to become a vampire bonfire," Buffy grumbled, but she held open the door, wincing at the sizzle as Spike flung the blanket over his head and barreled out into the sunlight. She raced after him into the deep shadows of the next mausoleum over.

"Where to?" Spike said briskly, ignoring the smoke rising from his hair.

"Campus, I think," Buffy sighed. "Veruca set up a decoy, some of her clothes, kind of off in the woods, and when we figured it out Oz headed towards the quad. Or he started going that way, but I lost track of him. We think she was going to confront Willow. So maybe the dorm? That's where I left her."

"Right." Spike tossed the blanket back over his head and raced to the next patch of shade, and then the next, before he drew up short.

"Something wrong?" Buffy scanned the grass ahead of them.

"Need the sun to dip another degree, get that shadow there bigger than a breadbox," he muttered, then turned to her. "Want to fill me in on the whole story? Like to know what we're up against."

Buffy flushed. "Well, remember how I said Oz was totally about responsible wolfiness? Turns out his cage had a bit of a malfunction and he got out. From what I was able to put together from Oz's terseness and Willow's babbling, he ran into Veruca, also wolfy, and they… they hooked up."

Spike regarded her wryly. "They go out for a coffee, then?"

"They had sex," Buffy amended sharply. "As wolves. I guess there was a bit of a commotion on campus, stories about wild dogs, but that was the day I overslept and didn't go to class because we, um…" She licked her dry lips, remembering just what Spike had done to wear her out. "So I didn't know. This is the part where Oz went nutso because instead of telling me, or anybody, he decided the thing to do was to invite Veruca to his cage last night because, you know, while they were having wolf sex at least they wouldn't be rampaging.

"Can't argue with that logic," Spike said with an eyeroll.

"I could, actually. I can think of lots of solutions that didn't require choosing to betray his girlfriend." Buffy took a deep breath. Getting angry was not going to help here. "Anyhow, Willow came by the next morning and caught them all cuddled up. She was so upset she almost walked in front of a car. I saved her, thank god, but she's… well, devastated."

"Been there," Spike muttered under his breath.

Buffy looked at him then, really looked. "Is that actual sympathy?"

He glared at her. "What? Just said I'd been there. Dru wasn't known for her bloody fidelity. Why d'you think I hate bloody Angelus so bloody much?" He settled the blanket defensively around his shoulders. "Had to sodding listen to them going at it when I was in that bloody wheelchair. Weeks of it, every bloody night, with Angelus rubbing it in every chance he got. Believe me, I know how the witch is feeling." He abruptly hoisted the blanket over his head and ran. Caught by surprise, Buffy chased after him.

The next patch of shade was just big enough for Spike; Buffy had a moment where she shivered at the thought of how close they'd need to stand to fit in the shade together before she remembered, duh, she didn't need the shade. She stepped out a little ways instead, standing in the golden sunset light and gauging the sun's progress, feeling vaguely ill.

She hadn't ever really thought too hard about… what Angel had been doing with Drusilla, back when she and Spike had forged their first truce. She'd known, intellectually, of course. She'd even mocked Spike for it.

_I want Dru back._

_You want my help 'cause your girlfriend's a big ho?_

She'd known Angel and Dru were together. She'd just never… pictured it. Ugh. She didn't want to picture it now. Was it cheating when it was just his body and not his soul? When the demon was in charge?

Was Oz cheating when he was the wolf?

Buffy's gaze fell on Spike then, standing in his tiny bit of darkness, faintly smoking. He was looking at her, eyes intent, unreadable, and she wondered then… where did it come from? Spike's hunger for Drusilla to be faithful to him couldn't come from a soul. And if it wasn't the soul….

She shoved those thoughts away and walked forward until she was standing right in front of Spike, her legs still in the weak November sunlight, her head sharing Spike's shadow haven, and she kissed him.

He kissed her back, lips tender, then tilted his head back to look at her, one hand coming up to stroke her hair. "What's this, then?"

"Thanks for helping."

He shrugged, glancing away. "Not doing it out of the evilness of my heart. Bloody werewolves are ruining our evening." He grinned. "Had plans."

"So did I." Buffy sighed, looking off towards campus. "I thought we'd got them panicked for sure, but I guess Willow's been too occupied to worry about my regrettable dating choices." She bit her lip, sensing Spike's slight withdrawal. "Not that I have regrets. Um, you know. Just, uh, the plan. Revenge. No-regrets revenge."

"Right." Spike tugged her in for another kiss, and then nodded his head towards the next shadow over, a good long stretch of lengthening shadows. "Better get on."

They ran in silence from shadow to shadow, the havens growing larger and longer as the sun sank lower, until they'd reached the edge of campus.

Spike pulled up, tested the air, then headed off in a direction that was… not the dorms.

"Spike, where are we going?"

"Following the scent," he tossed over his shoulder. "What you wanted me for, yeah?"

That's right, she'd wanted him to track Veruca, had been thinking while she was hunting with Oz how much better Spike's sense of smell probably was. If she'd actually believed things were going to go down at the dorms, she'd have just headed straight for the dorms when she lost Oz. She needed tracking help. Except she'd also just… wanted Spike to help. When she'd been casting about for how she could save Willow, she'd instinctively run to him, knowing he'd join her, knowing he'd be a worthwhile ally to have by her side, because he was her… her partner. Her partner not just for revenge.

Her partner not just for sex.

She followed him across the darkening quad, to one of the buildings she'd never been in -- CHEMISTRY & BIOCHEMISTRY the sign outside said -- and inside and up a flight of stairs, and another, and finally Spike drew up outside a closed door, peeking in the window briefly before stepping aside.

"All yours, Slayer," he growled low.

There was talking inside, Oz and what had to be Veruca, and a glance inside showed Willow sprawled in the corner of the lab while Oz and Veruca circled each other, the change coming over them as she watched, and then it was done, the talking and the changing and they were all snarls and fur, circling and pouncing and clawing and biting and Willow's eyes were huge and terrified and Buffy burst through the door and aimed and shot, one-two-three-four, and the snarling mass of fur whimpered and subsided, collapsing into separate heaps on the floor.

"Well," Spike said from the doorway. "That was anticlimactic. Thought there'd be a little rough and tumble, bit of a show."

"I don't want them dead," Buffy said shortly, dropping her gun and rushing over to Willow. She was trembling, eyes still wide, and Buffy wrapped her in her arms silently, looking back towards Spike.

He leaned over to inspect the two werewolves, flipping one of them over with a booted toe. "Got this fellow three times, love. Nice work."

"Giles said one was iffy, two was about right, six or more was deadly."

"The watcher said _iffy_?" Spike flipped the other body over. "This must be the bird."

"He said some other word, but he meant iffy. And how can you tell?"

He shrugged. "Parts."

"Ew." Buffy looked back at Willow so she didn't have to see or contemplate werewolf _parts_.

Willow was glaring at Veruca-wolf, and Buffy belatedly realized that it wasn't just shock and fear causing her friend to tremble. It was also… rage.

“_She _wanted_ me_ dead,” Willow whispered.

“She was a werewolf,” Buffy said reassuringly. “You know they can’t help it when they’re all wolfy.”

Willow’s voice strengthened. “No, she wanted me dead when she wasn’t the wolf. She came here on purpose. She said she… she had to kill me to keep what was hers. She was just waiting for the sun to go down. Like… like it was the timer on a bomb.” Willow shivered. “She wanted me dead. She chose to kill me.”

“Shh,” Buffy murmured, hugging Willow again. “It’s okay.” She looked helplessly at Spike, who was watching them both intently. _Sympathetically. _Where did that come from?

“Oz chose, too,” Willow said fiercely, drawing Buffy’s attention again.

“What?”

“Not the first night. The first night was an accident. He got out, and you’re right, he wasn’t himself. He couldn’t help it. But the second time… he chose. He wasn’t the wolf when he locked her up with him. He wanted her, and he chose her.”

And then Willow was crying, great heaving gasps of sobs, and Buffy wrapped her arms around her, stroking her hair, and she dimly felt Spike walking towards them, as if to add his arms to the embrace, and Buffy realized she wanted him to, she wanted him to help her comfort Willow, she wanted….

A growl cut through Willow’s sobs.

Buffy’s head shot up as a furry body slammed into Spike from behind, knocking him sprawling, but the werewolf didn’t stop to savage him, it was already leaping over his body, lunging straight at Buffy and Willow, and Buffy just barely managed to get in front of Willow, swinging up her arm to catch the beast’s fangs. They dug in viciously, and she bit back a cry of pain, punching it in the face to get it to release her. They rolled over and over, wrestling, Buffy struggling to get the upper hand.

“Buffy!” Willow screamed when Buffy found herself pinned underneath.

“Just run!” Buffy yelled, fighting to break free.

Another growl sounded, and Buffy had just enough time to freak out that the other werewolf had come to when Spike rose up behind her opponent, his fangs out, and he pulled the werewolf off her, snarling, and then they were rolling on the floor and Buffy scrambled to her feet, oh god, the gun, where had she dropped the tranquilizer gun? She spotted it over by the door and started to stumble that direction, crashing to the ground when clawed hands snatched at her ankle. She kicked out, seeing Spike slumped unmoving against one of the lab tables, but there wasn’t time to worry, she was too busy fighting, barely managing to keep the claws and teeth away from her throat, and she flung it away except oh god, she’d thrown it towards Willow, who’d been trying to circle around towards the door, and it turned and leapt towards her friend and Buffy was too far away, she’d never reach them, the gun was too far, and Willow fell to the ground, arms going over her head, and then Spike was there, blood on his human face as he caught up the werewolf in a full nelson, arms under its armpits and hands around the back of its neck and there was a crack like a branch snapping and the werewolf went still, dangling limply in Spike’s grasp.

He flung the body to the ground, chest heaving with exertion.

“Sorry, love.” Spike’s voice was rough. "Know you didn't want her dead.”

_Oh god. _

“Oz?” Willow whimpered, staring at the motionless corpse.

“Your boy’s over there,” Spike said, voice oddly uninflected. “Parts.”

Buffy just stared as Willow half-crawled, half stumbled over to Oz’s side. The werewolf was breathing, though shallowly, and Willow started to cry again, burying her face in his chest.

Buffy swallowed, rising carefully to her feet. Her arm hurt like hell and she was bruised all over, but she also felt numb, all the way to her toes. “Those tranquilizers aren’t going to keep him down for long,” she said carefully. “We’d better get him back to his cage.” She limped over to Willow and fell to her knees beside her, placing an uncertain hand on her back.

Willow raised her head. “What about her?”

“I don’t know.” Buffy looked at the dead werewolf, her head spinning. “She’s not… we can’t just leave her. But she’s not… identifiable. She won’t ever turn back now.”

Spike didn’t speak, just heaved the corpse up over his shoulder and walked out of the room.

Buffy watched him leave, unable to say a word.

*

Spike sat on the stone sarcophagus, the cold of the marble seeping into him like death. He’d methodically folded all the blankets and comforters and set them aside, stacked against the wall with the pillows, and now all that was left was the waiting. He’d even turned on the bloody heater for her.

He knew she’d come, eventually.

It was just past midnight when she showed -- fitting, that -- and he just watched her as she quietly opened the door and stepped inside. She hadn’t changed clothes, still wearing the white blouse and black trousers she’d worn earlier, the maroon leather jacket now marred with jagged rips where the fucking werewolf bitch had-- He fought back a growl at the thought.

“Hello, William.” She didn’t come in all the way, just stood there, just inside the door.

“Buried her,” Spike said shortly, not waiting for her to ask. “Was a grave waiting for tomorrow’s ceremony. Put her just a foot deeper. Bloody gravediggers will finish the job tomorrow.”

“Okay,” she said softly. “Thank you.”

He nodded towards her arm. “Get patched up, then?”

She cradled her arm briefly. “Yeah. Giles took care of me.”

“Right.” Spike sighed. “Look, I’m not one to put off the bloody inevitable. I know I broke my bloody promise. Didn’t have much time to think.” He shoved off the sarcophagus to stand, chest up, daring her. “Not going to go down without a fight.”

She just looked at him, not smiling, not even moving. “I’m not here to stake you,” she said at last, voice steady.

“All right, then.” Spike sighed. “Can be out of town by morning. Just need to square away--”

“I’m not asking you to leave, either.”

Spike glared at her, annoyed. “There’s only two ways this can end, love. Death or departure. And I don’t feature you committing suicide by Spike just because you’re all torn up over getting down and dirty with the Big Bad.”

She rolled her eyes. “God, you’re an asshole.” She slipped her hand into her jacket pocket, bringing it out in a fist and then opening it to show the contents.

His promise crystal, white and clear, the facets flickering in the candlelight.

_Yeah, all right,_ he thought savagely._ Let’s end this proper. Prove what a bastard I am, so you can kill me without blinking an eye. _

He walked towards Buffy slowly, eyes on hers, and then fell to his knees before her, closing his eyes as he spoke. “I swear to thee I have kept my promise.”

Silence stretched on, and finally, when she still hadn’t ripped his head off, he opened his eyes again.

The crystal was still white.

Buffy looked down at him, regal as a queen, silent as the goddess of death, and he looked up at her, fighting back the urge to kiss her boots, and then her face shifted, becoming human again, fragile, miserable, and she fell to her knees as well, hands on his shoulders, pressing her warm forehead against his for an eternal moment, and then she kissed him on the forehead, like a benediction, and then on the lips, like a vow.

“I don’t think she’d been human for a long time,” said Buffy softly. “She chose to be the monster inside her, and that’s how she died. A monster.” She kissed him again, hard. “Thank you for saving Willow.”

He sank down, pressing the top of his head against her breastbone. “Knew that would destroy you.” He wanted her destroyed, he reminded himself, but… not by some bloody accident. She was _his _to destroy, _his_ to kill, not some bloody upstart werewolf twat who fancied herself a rock star.

_His._

“Thank you,” she said again, and then she stood and held out her hand to him, and he took it, because he was a fucking idiot, and let her draw him up to stand before her.

She peered over his shoulder at the bleak stone sarcophagus. “What happened to the comfy?”

He shrugged as if it didn’t matter. “Didn’t think you’d exactly want to cuddle in the process of ripping off my head.” He jerked his head towards the stack of pillows and blankets by the wall.

She rolled her eyes and stomped over to the wall. “As if I want to sit my ass on cold, hard stone.” She yanked out a bunch of the pillows and blankets, creating a little nest up against the wall, and plopped down right in the middle. “There. Now we can talk.”

He stood where he was for a few more seconds, because he damn well still had his pride, but sod it all, he wasn’t that fucking proud, and he stalked over to her and plunked down beside her, glaring.

She glared right back before she melted into him, resting her head on her chest.

He kissed the top of her head, because it was there.

“I had to think about it,” she said softly, slipping her arm around his waist. “About whether I had to stake you.”

“‘Course you did,” he said fondly, ruffling her hair.

“She was… she was human. Or she was once.” She squeezed him tight around the middle. “Those are the ones I hate the most. The ones that I see the human in.”

He didn’t have anything to say to that.

Buffy shifted against him. “Did I ever tell you about the swim coach at Sunnydale High?” She laughed bitterly. “Of course I didn’t. We didn’t exactly trade war stories when we were trying to stop Acathla.”

“That we did not,” he agreed cautiously.

“So, um, long story short…” She stroked her cheek against his chest. “The coach was pretty much as awful as a human being could get. Turned the whole swim team into genetic monstrosities, and then offered me up to get gang-raped and probably eaten by the whole team.”

Spike didn’t bother to suppress his growl this time.

“Yeah.” Buffy looked up at him seriously. “Obviously I got away.” She traced aimless, arousing shapes on Spike’s belly. “But, um, he came to an ironic and painful end.”

“Gang-raped and eaten?” Spike held her closer, unaccountably pissed off.

“Yeah.” Buffy ducked her head. “I… I saw it. Not, you know, the gory details, there was water and stuff, but… enough.” She hugged him tighter. “I didn’t even try to save him.”

Spike would have joined in the killing, but he didn’t think this was the time to mention it.

“And Ford. You remember him, right?”

Spike rolled his eyes. “The wanker who wanted to stab you in the back so he could live forever?”

“Yeah. He was… well, he was human, too. But in the end, I… I didn’t save him.”

“He was a sodding idiot.”

“He was. He betrayed me. But he was my friend, too.” Buffy curled into him like a snail ducking into its shell. “I staked him when he rose.”

“Good on you.”

“And they’re not the only ones. There are a lot of humans I’ve… I’ve let reap their own rewards, or not worked too hard to save.” She sighed. “I guess what I’m saying is… I know _human_ and _good _aren’t the same thing. Sometimes they’re not even on the same planet.”

He didn’t have an answer to that, either, so he just stroked her hair and held her close, and listened.

“So I get it. I get how you can be human, and still be… still be terrible. And I can’t even say that I’m some holier-than-thou savior who doesn’t care about that. I’ve… I’ve turned my back. I’ve looked the other way.” She rubbed her cheek against him. “I’m human, too.”

Bloody hell. It was bloody unfair, how vulnerable she was. Made him want to twist the knife and shield her at the same time.

“Oz… Oz hurt Willow pretty bad,” she said at last.

“Mmm,” he agreed.

“Why do we care?” she whispered into his chest. “Why do we even get jealous? It’s… there’s something stupid here. You can’t _own _another human being’s body, or their love. You can’t lock them away in a tower. Why do we even try?”

“Because love is bloody stupid?” Spike ventured.

“It is. It totally is.”

“But we still want it,” Spike murmured. “We want to belong. We want to be someone's love. We want it with everything in us.”

“I know.” Buffy huffed out an impatient breath. “It’s completely unfair.”

Spike nodded and stroked her hair, gently, like she was a wild horse.

“Willow’s forgiven Oz already,” Buffy went on. “She’s still in the crying stage -- Giles gave her a lot of tea, but it just made her cry more -- but she’s forgiven him. She can’t not. She just… she just loves him.”

_Bloody hell. _Like he needed another bloody parallel between him and the witch. “Of course she does.”

“She forgives him,” Buffy repeated, voice trembling. “But I don’t think… I don’t think he’ll forgive himself. I think he’s going to leave.”

And suddenly she was shaking, shaking like an earthquake, and he instinctively wrapped her closer as she shook, and then she was weeping, face buried in his chest, hot tears soaking into his shirt, and he held her tight, stroking her hair and back and arms to soothe her, cradling her with his entire body.

“Hush, love,” he whispered. “Shh.”

But she wept and wept, buckets of salt pouring into his bloody shirt, and he held her and stroked her and kissed her, and when her desire for comfort turned to just desire he laid her back in her nest of pillows and kissed her and petted her and caressed her until her tears were tears of ecstasy, and then she wept some more and he held her close, cursing, but at the same time he was melting, shifting like hot wax to the shape of what Buffy needed, taking her pain into himself, and when she finally subsided into sleep, curled like a nautilus into his body, he stroked her hair and kissed her skin and held her close, and waited for the sun to rise.

That was all he could do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can see clips of the Talking Heads performing “Psycho Killer” live at CBGB in 1975 (maybe not their first performance, but close) here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lDi5tYH4AY8


	11. Chapter 11

“You know, this is why you can’t trust musicians.”

Buffy rolled her eyes. “Cordelia, I don’t think it was because--”

“Okay, remind me who the Dating Slayer is again? And I totally heard you roll your eyes.”

“You.” Buffy laughed despite herself. “You’re the Slayer when it comes to dating.”

“Damn skippy I am. And like I was saying, all those artsy people are the same. Flakes, one and all.”

“Oh, so not just musicians?” Buffy teased.

“Well, musicians are probably the worst. I mean, Dylan was such a flake I’d have been better off pouring milk on him and calling him breakfast than expecting him to have a mature relationship. But they’re all terrible. Painters, sculptors, writers…. It’s like being creative sucks away their humanity, you know?”

“Cordelia, you act.”

“So?”

“So you’re an artist, too.”

“I’m an actress, not an artist.”

“Actresses are performing artists.”

“Well, not me! I’m a professional.”

Chalking up another tally mark on the arguments-not-even-worth-having-with-Cordy scoreboard, Buffy steered the conversation back on topic. “I am very certain that this was more of a werewolf problem than a musician problem.”

“Same diff. You said you got bit?”

“Chomped on, yeah. But I had a leather jacket on, so it didn’t break skin. Just some nasty bruises. Giles patched me up.” Spike had checked her arm over, too, later that night and then again and again over the next few nights, hands gentle and eyes hard. It had been… well, sweet was the only word that came to mind, except that it felt off. Spike was more intense than that.

“Well, that’s something. You’ve got enough problems without howling at the moon.”

“Giles said I was lucky.” Buffy glared over at her closet, where she’d hung the mangled jacket. “He doesn’t know how much that jacket cost. Tailored leather is spendy.”

“Don’t I know it!” Cordelia snorted out a wry laugh.

“So anyhow, Oz has been gone for a week now, and Willow’s… not taking it well.”

“Well, duh. The first one’s always the hardest. I mean, look at you and Angel.”

Buffy flopped back on her bed. “Let’s not.”

Cordelia cleared her throat. “So, um… speaking of Angel, how’s that revenge thing going? Still planning on, you know….”

“Yes,” Buffy said quickly. “The plan is exactly the same as it always was.”

“Right.” Cordelia sighed.

“It’s weird,” Buffy admitted, glaring at the ceiling. “I mean, I thought someone would have spilled the beans to Angel by now. About me and… and William.”

“Well, it’s not like your friends are his buddies or anything,” Cordelia said shortly. “I mean, he was only hanging out with them because of you.”

“Yeah, but….” Buffy sighed. “I don’t know. I just thought we’d be done by now. Revenge over, bye-bye Angel… bye-bye William.” _Bye-bye Spike,_ she thought bleakly.

There was a long pause. “Is that what you want?” Cordelia asked quietly. “You want it to be over?”

“It’s the plan,” Buffy said firmly, ignoring the sick feeling in her stomach.

“Yes, but….” Cordelia huffed in frustration. “You said things were going great.”

“I didn’t say that!”

“You’re right, you didn’t. In fact, you haven’t spilled a damn thing worth spilling since I sent you your homework. I have been reading between the lines of your avoidance.” Cordelia tapped on the phone. “I was promised details.”

Details flooded across Buffy’s brain. Piña coladas and screams and…. “Things are going great,” she hedged.

Had Cordelia just growled?

The week since Oz had left had been full of country music, tearful girl-talk with Willow, and cheer-Willow-up Scooby gatherings. Spike had dutifully come to every single night out, drinking a carefully-vetted selection of drinks (because lime wedges inadvertently made Willow cry), stoically playing pool with Xander (because foosball inexplicably made Willow cry), and discussing non-music things (because music talk inevitably made Willow cry). Every night they had publicly cuddled and cooed and kissed, determined even in the midst of the Willow-cheerage to get the Scoobies to crack and tell someone -- anyone -- about Buffy’s latest dangerous liaison. And every night they had gone out to patrol afterwards -- Spike had shrugged philosophically and noted that killing demons was apparently compliant with his promise to Buffy, and that he was _bloody bored_, and so he’d strolled through the graveyards by Buffy’s side and acted as her left-hand man... and taken every possible opportunity to get his hands and mouth on or inside her.

Not that she’d complained.

She had, in fact, been complicit in finding -- and occasionally creating -- said opportunities.

“Really, really great,” she elaborated, thinking about what Spike had done to her the previous night behind the Alpert crypt.

“Oh, so you finally got laid?” Cordelia’s voice perked up. “Do tell.”

“Uh, define _laid_?”

“Oh my god. Screwed. Fucked. The horizontal mambo. Home run, Buffy. Have you scored?”

“Well, technically… no?”

“Please don’t tell me you’re still on second base.”

“Oh, no. We’re on third.” Buffy stretched languorously, remembering. “Very much on third.”

“Oh, for cripes sake, Buffy. Do we have to play twenty questions to get you to drop the shy teenager act?”

“We are still teenagers,” Buffy protested.

“Barely,” Cordelia grumbled. “But I’m tired of reading between the lines. You owe me answers, big time, so twenty questions it is. Question one, did you read the books I recommended? Yes or no.”

Buffy flushed, glancing over at the well-thumbed volumes she’d carefully concealed between textbooks. “Yes.”

“All right then. And did you buy a vibrator?”

“Yes.”

“And have you been using said vibrator?”

“Yes.”

“So what’s your number?”

“My number?”

Cordelia tapped the phone again. “You were at zero. Please tell me you’ve made it to five, at least.”

“Oh,” Buffy bit her lip. “Yeah. I’ve definitely made it to five.” _Every night since then._

“Just you? Or is William giving you an assist here?”

“Yeah. He… um, he gets the job done.”

“Oh, thank god.” There was a long pause. “Just hands, or oral?”

“That’s not a yes or no question,” Buffy protested.

Cordelia huffed. “Okay, let’s break it down. You getting finger action?”

“Yes.”

“Have you given him a blow job?”

“Yes.” Buffy sighed. “Um, thanks for the tips.”

“Don’t thank me, thank… no, that’s right, thank me. Did he return the favor?”

Buffy grinned. “Well, seeing as I don’t have a penis….”

“Says the girl who couldn't even say the word _penis_ a month ago. Don't be a brat. Did your sweet, tattooed William go down on you?”

“He doesn’t have a tattoo.”

“Answer the question.”

“Yes,” Buffy said, squirming.

“And?”

“It was… um, it was good.” Buffy sighed, remembering. “Really, really good.”

“Does he treat it like a chore? Or like he’s doing you some special favor?”

“Uh, no? He, uh, he kinda… loves it?”

Cordelia heaved a long, satisfied sigh. “All right then. I concede your _really, really great. _Now, does he have a twin brother?”

“Definitely not.” _Unless you count Billy Idol._

“Damn.”

Buffy laughed.

“So, next question -- and this one’s a toughie -- here you’ve got a guy bringing you off on the regular, loves to go downtown, making you sigh and drool -- don’t try to pretend you’re not, it’s practically dripping through the phone -- so.” Cordelia’s voice turned to steel. “Why do you want it to be over?”

Buffy curled up on her side. “Because it’s bad. It… it can’t work.”

“How do you know? God, Buffy, I can’t believe you’re such a coward.”

“I’m not a coward,” Buffy replied, stung.

“You are! You’ve got someone actually making you happy -- I can hear it in your voice -- and you’re afraid to hold on to it. You’re just hiding behind your stupid plan.”

“Hey, you were there. It’s your stupid plan, too.”

“My plan was to get you to move on,” Cordelia snapped back. “And it’s working. As far as I can see, you have moved on.”

“Not… not all the way,” Buffy whispered.

“And why not?” Cordelia huffed again. “Buffy, you can’t let one terrible night of sex ruin you for all time.”

“It wasn’t terrible,” Buffy insisted.

“It was if it broke you,” Cordelia said firmly. “Even if he had treated you right.”

“I just… it’s hard for me,” Buffy groaned.

“Probably harder for your William.” Cordelia sighed. “Look, Buffy. I get that this isn’t easy. Most guys just turn into assholes the day after, not murdering psychopaths. So I get that you have some issues to work around. But answer me this: do you want to? Forget all the doom-and-gloom predictions of badness. Do you, Buffy, want to go all the way? Don't overthink this. What does your body say?"

Buffy couldn't answer right away, not because she didn't know the answer -- her body had been screaming it at her all week -- but because putting it into words made it real, and yeah, she was kind of a coward. She was terrified of this reality. But honesty had gotten her this far, so-- "Yes."

"Then do it.”

“But Angel--”

“Angel, schmangel. Look, I bet the reason nobody’s told him is -- quit it!”

“Excuse me?”

“Not you, Dennis. Um, my roommate. Hang on a sec-- no, Dennis! Stop that! This is not the right time!” There was a loud clattering on the other side of the line. “Oh, just shut up!”

Buffy didn’t hear any other voices. “What does he want?”

“He wants me to… um, do the dishes.” More clattering.

“I didn’t know you had a roommate. And a guy roommate, too.” Buffy leaped on the idea of discussing someone’s love life that wasn’t hers.

“Oh, no. It’s not like that. Dennis is… well, he’s not my type-- stop it! God, can you give it a rest?”

“Do you need to go? I have to get ready for this party we’re taking Willow to, so if you--”

“Well, yeah, in a minute. Dennis! Just let me -- this is for Buffy’s own good! I’m not being selfish at all!”

“If you have to go do the dishes--”

“No! Just-- hang on a second, Buffy.” There was some low muttering on the far end of the phone, and then Cordelia returned. “Okay. Listen to me, Buffy. You know why nobody’s told Angel that you’ve got a new man? Because w-- they all actually want you to be happy. They see you’re dating again, you’re getting some, you’re probably all glowing all the time. When did you ever glow when you were dating Angel?”

“I--”

“Never, that’s when. Buffy, you were so caught up in the _drama_ of your drama you weren’t even having fun. And that’s what you need to do. Go have some fun. Forget your revenge on Angel.”

“I can’t--” Buffy swallowed. “Cordelia, if I’m not doing this for revenge… it’s going to end anyhow.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Oh, I do.” _Without the revenge, Spike has no reason to stay. I have no reason not to kill him. Without the revenge… Spike will leave. _"It's all about the revenge."

“Well then don’t forget your revenge. Just… don’t rush it, okay? Enjoy the ride, so to speak. And maybe....” Cordelia sighed. “Maybe later you’ll figure out that it’s not what’s really important.”

“Cordelia….”

“Don’t you even mention the A-word. You said more than five, right? Are you up in double digits?”

“Triple,” Buffy mumbled. Or she thought so; she’d kind of lost count a few times.

“Triple digits. Without having the big-s Sex. You know who could have done that for you if he’d tried?”

Buffy grimaced. “Yeah. Angel.” Not like she hadn’t come to that conclusion herself. It just… sounded worse when Cordelia said it.

“Damn skippy. So screw the stupid mystical romance of your first time. Screw your revenge. And Buffy? Go screw your William.”

“I--”

“Don’t you say one word that isn’t ‘yes, Cordelia, I am going to go fuck my boyfriend six ways to Sunday.’”

“He’s not my boyfriend.”

Cordelia laughed. “Get real, Buffy. He’s been your boyfriend for weeks. So say it.”

“Yes, Cordelia. I am going to go….” Buffy sighed. “What if he says no?”

“You are really grasping at straws here. From what you just told me, that man has got to be dying to do you.”

Buffy would argue that, except that all her arguments -- _he’s only doing this to get his own revenge, he’s still in love with his ex, we agreed we wouldn’t, also he’s already dead_ \-- kind of hinged on the fact that William was Spike, and she couldn’t tell Cordelia that, Cordelia wouldn’t get it, and so she just sighed. “I’ll try.”

“Don’t make me break out the stupid movie quotes again. You just said you want to do it. Go do it.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Buffy grumbled, saluting the ceiling.

“Now, I don’t have to remind you to practice safe sex, right? You were paying attention that day?”

“There’s… there’s no chance of pregnancy. Or disease.” Except… nothing was safe about Spike.

“Don’t take any chances,” Cordelia bulldozed on. “Even if he says the condom is too small. I mean, you were there when Ms. Collins inflated that condom up to like a gallon.”

“That I was. ‘If he says it doesn’t fit, run away, girls. It will hurt you.’” Buffy lowered her voice to an approximation of their no-nonsense sophomore-year health teacher.

“So go have sex, and make sure it’s safe. Got it?”

“Got it.” Buffy sighed. “What would I do without you, Cordelia?”

“Probably date some boring potato who couldn’t find your clit with a map and a compass,” Cordelia snarked back. “And don’t call me until the deed is done. I have work to do.”

“And dishes.”

“Oh yeah. Lots of dishes.”

The phone disconnected, leaving Buffy staring at the ceiling, stomach churning.

_Go do it._

If it had been just William, just a human guy -- like Parker -- she already would have, no doubt. Someone sweet and uncomplicated and nice and… and human. Not evil. Not a vampire. Definitely not an evil vampire still in love with his sire who just happened to be related in a vampy way to the vampire she'd given her heart and her virtue to, turning him evil in the process….

God, no wonder she was a mess, if that convoluted train of thought was what passed for logic in her brain these days.

But no, this was better, she reassured herself. Sex with Spike was totally a better idea than sex with a guy she actually had a future with, because then she could… she could move on after, and she’d know what she liked and not be all hung up on her lack of experience. With any luck, she and Spike could have just enough sex for her to be comfortable with it before Angel found out and her revenge was complete and she’d staked….

_No._

God, she was the worst slayer ever. But the thought of staking Spike now seemed… wrong. Unfair. _Evil_. Even knowing he’d probably go off and kill again… but that was just back to the status quo. That had always been their deal. He helped her out, he got to live, as long as he lived somewhere else. A fair price for stopping an apocalypse, once upon a time, maybe, if you looked at it with your eyes all squinted and your head tilted to the side….

So she’d let him leave. He could go, she’d let him go, and then she could look up Parker or find some other nice human guy and… she could move on.

That was the plan, and she was sticking to it.

*

Willow gazed bleakly around the Lowell House party, wishing she hadn’t agreed to go along with Buffy’s plan for a fun night out.

She wasn’t stupid. She knew her friends’ hidden agenda, that everyone was doing their best to distract her from the gaping hole Oz had left in her life, and she loved them for trying, but it was kind of like… like trying to stop up a black hole by throwing confetti at it. It just didn’t help.

Nothing helped. Just like an actual black hole, no matter how many cute little robots you paraded in front of it. (“Watch Willow’s Favorite Terrible Disney Movies Night” had been another unsuccessful cheering-up event.)

Buffy came up to her then, panting a little, and Willow pasted on as big of a smile as she could fake.

“Come on,” Buffy gasped. “Come dance with us.”

Willow glanced quickly over Buffy’s shoulder at Spike, who was weirdly filling up a plate of cheese at the snack table. “Oh, I don’t want to be a third wheel.”

Buffy rolled her eyes. “First off, Xander and Anya are here, too, so there’s five of us. Second of all, look at that dance floor. No couples at all. Third--”

Willow rolled her eyes right back. “Oh, so you and Spike aren’t going to be joined at the lips ten minutes from now?”

Buffy bit her lip. “Um, no?” she said weakly.

“It’s okay,” Willow reassured her. “Spike, um, seems to be making you happy. And he saved my life. Go on with the smoochies. I won’t tell.”

Buffy opened her mouth and closed it again, looking at Willow with a completely unreadable expression. Which made Willow feel even more third-wheely, because since when did Buffy have expressions that she couldn’t read? Buffy’s face was usually an open book. Large print, with helpful illustrations. Now, it was like she was written in a different alphabet entirely.

“Here, love.” Spike appeared at Buffy’s side. “Filled you a plate.”

“Ooh, cheese!” Buffy took the plate and dug in. “How did you know I was hungry?”

“Thought you might need some energy for... later.” He grinned cheekily.

Buffy glanced quickly at Willow. “Oh, yeah, for patrol.” She shoveled cheese into her mouth.

“Yeah, patrol,” Spike agreed quickly. “Definitely for patrol.” Now, his face -- his face was an open magazine, the kind you had to show an ID to purchase. Possibly the kind they actually really checked the ID.

_Did I say ten minutes? _Willow thought wryly. _Liplock coming in five, four, three, two…._

“So!” Buffy said brightly, setting her empty plate on a nearby table. “I’m going to go, um, get something to drink. See you on the dance floor?”

“Oh, absolutely,” Willow lied.

She watched while Buffy dragged Spike off in the direction of the drinks table -- and then ducked out of sight into a hallway.

“Was that Buffy?”

Willow glanced behind her -- and then up, because Riley was really, really tall. “Last I checked.”

“Huh.” Riley looked kind of confused, staring off towards the hallway. “So that guy… he’s really her boyfriend?”

She shrugged. “Last I checked,” she repeated. “I, um, wouldn’t follow them. It could be traumatic.”

Riley opened his mouth and closed it again.

Willow peered at him closely. “You weren’t thinking you and Buffy….” He seemed awfully disappointed.

“No!” Riley grinned sheepishly. “No, uh, of course not.”

“Because, um….” How to let him down gently? “Oh! Um, did you know it’s against UC Sunnydale’s Code of Conduct for a TA to date a student in one of their classes?”

Riley blinked. “It is?”

“Yeah. Um, because, you know, grading, and quid pro quo, and… stuff.” There, that should nip things in the bud nicely. Riley seemed like the type to care about rules.

“Huh.”

Some muscley guy Willow had seen around here and there came up behind Riley. “Hey, Finn. I think I saw that girl you liked. Looks like she’s--”

“Not even here,” Riley interrupted with a bright grin. “Thanks, Graham.”

“No, she’s--” Graham broke off, then shrugged. “Anyhow, we need you downstairs.”

Willow plastered her fakeity smile on again. “See you in class?”

“Uh, yeah.” With another glare at the hallway where Spike was almost certainly smooching the heck out of Buffy, Riley followed his friend out of the room.

Willow spared another glance for Xander and Anya on the dance floor -- no couples, shyeah, they were obviously in their own little world, blending right in with the college party scene -- but she really, really wasn’t needed, and it was about ten minutes to Heartbreak Hour on KRAZ “KRAZy Country” -- the best moping music around. Willow had tried all the country music stations, but at KRAZ they definitely knew how it felt to have a broken heart.

She’d had enough "fun" for one night. Time for her own private party of pain.

*

“Just saying, I thought I saw her having, you know, her own private party up there, with some bleach-blond dude--”

“Give it a rest, Graham,” Riley bit out. “She’s, uh, she’s one of my students. Off-limits. You know how the UCMJ works.”

“That’s not what you said yesterday,” Graham persisted as the elevator doors slid open, revealing the vast hall of the Initiative. Riley stalked out, barely glancing at the science pit as he headed to where Professor Walsh was waiting, clipboard in hand. At least whatever they were doing was quiet today -- usually they had to listen to all sorts of wails and growls from the disgusting animals they’d captured.

“Situation?” he growled. “Time to suit up?”

Walsh looked at him, her jaw set. “Quite the opposite, Agent Finn. Time to stand down.”

“Professor?”

She sighed, passing a hand over her face. “It’s over.”

“What’s over?” Riley looked around again, suddenly aware that things were different. The pit wasn’t just quiet -- it was empty, not a single scientist or demon subject. Eyes narrowing, he saw Dr. Angleman pushing a dolly stacked high with file boxes, accompanied by an unfamiliar face in an unfamiliar uniform. “Professor, what’s going on?”

Walsh drew herself up proudly. “Our funding has been pulled, effective immediately. It seems the government think-tank sponsoring our research is… disappointed with the lack of results.”

“But the behavior-modification chip--”

“--has yet to be successfully implanted into a vampire host. You know what happened to Hostiles 1 through 19.”

“They spontaneously dusted,” Riley muttered, hands clenching into fists. “They weren’t strong enough to withstand the pain.”

“Hostile 20 followed suit last night, and when I reported this to the supervisory board, they advised me that twenty failures was their limit.” Her eye twitched. “As of today, the Initiative has been shut down, and I am no longer employed by either the Initiative, or this University. We have been ordered to destroy all files and specimens immediately.”

“Wait, the University?” Riley took a step back. “What about your classes?”

She grimaced. “Assigned to an adjunct. Apparently without government funding, the University cannot afford to pay a full professor to teach an introductory course.”

Riley felt sick. “And... my teaching assistantship?”

“Was also funded by the government.” Walsh shrugged. “You’ve been reassigned.”

“Reassigned.” Riley looked at Graham, who looked back at him, face grim.

“You were in SpecOps before you came here, am I correct?” Walsh glanced down at her clipboard, voice dispassionate.

“Correct,” Riley bit out.

“Then I expect that’s where you’ll end up again. Even our South American branch is being decommissioned.”

“That’s crazy! What about all the work we’ve done, all we’ve learned--?” Riley broke off, tasting bile, remembering the squadmates they’d lost bringing in their specimens. So many deaths….

Walsh regarded him levelly. “Without a practical application, I’m afraid the government has no interest.” Her face twisted with emotion. “And I was so close….” She gazed down at the table beside her, fingers brushing over a thick manila folder labeled “314.”

Riley wanted to rage and rant, but he’d been in the military long enough to know that it was no good; he drew himself up to stand ready instead. “Final orders, Professor?”

She shrugged, seeming almost to shrink. “Report to the briefing room for your assignment. We need all hands to decommission the facility. Our timetable is short.”

Riley nodded curtly, and saluted, and stalked stiffly in the direction of the briefing room, trying not to notice the way his mentor sank into a chair behind him, like a broken doll, a marionette without strings. He had his orders, and he knew his duty. He’d do what needed to be done.

_It’s over._

*

Buffy had promised herself when the party was over, she was going to ask him. She really, really was. But then the party had wound down, and Xander and Anya had gone their own way -- Willow having bowed out earlier, apparently -- and it hadn’t seemed like the right time, so she’d invited Spike out on patrol instead, which had earned her a grin and a kiss, and so she’d promised herself to ask him when patrol was over, except there hadn’t really been an ending to that, not a moment when she could definitely say patrol was done, because they’d just kind of flowed straight from staking a trio of particularly-smelly vamps to Spike hiking her leg over his shoulder and going down on her while she leaned against a granite headstone, and then on to racing-stumbling back to their crypt, and by the time they made it to the door, breathless from running and kissing (in her case, at least - she wasn’t sure why Spike was gasping, but it made her feel like the hottest woman alive) she still hadn’t managed to say it.

She couldn’t even figure out what she wanted to say.

_Spike, let’s have sex!_

No, that was way too direct. And disgustingly perky, like she was a robot or something. Maybe she should ease into it more?

_Spike, remember how we agreed we shouldn’t have sex, because you thought it was revolting and I said ew? Well, I was thinking maybe it wouldn’t be revolting or ew, so, um, what do you think?_

Ugh. Wimpy.

_Fuck me, Spike. Fuck me now!_

Oh god. She couldn’t.

And now here they were, halfway to naked, and Spike was clearly all set for another oral sex marathon, he’d obviously come by earlier to get the heater running and light candles and ooh, was that massage oil warming over there? Maybe tonight was a bad night. Maybe she should wait for a better time.

Maybe she was a damn coward.

And the problem was, now she couldn’t even sink into her cowardice and just enjoy the night. Now she was all up in her head, even while Spike was kissing her brains out, heaving her up to the towel-draped sarcophagus -- her brains just kept sliding back on into thinking, words and terrors and arguments, instead of melting away like they were supposed to.

_I want to have sex with you, Spike. I’m terrified of having sex with you, Spike. I want this all to be over so I don’t have to decide. I want this. I don’t. I do. I’m scared._

And Spike stepped back, eyes burning, chin set at a challenging angle. “What’s wrong?” he said, simply.

She looked at him, the concerned look on his face, his tousled hair and wrinkled shirt and those eyes, and she buried her face in her hands because it was too… it was too.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered, except not in a mad voice, more confused, and then his arms were around her, and she wasn’t crying, she really wasn’t, but she kind of felt like she wanted to. “Arm hurting you, love?”

“No, it’s… it’s fine.”

“Sympathy for the witch?”

“No… I mean, yes, but no, that’s not it.”

“Then what’s wrong?” He kissed the top of her head.

“I want to have sex!” she moaned miserably, and oh god, how had she managed to come up with an even worse way to say it than any of the things she’d tried to plan? She sounded like… like a spoiled baby. Definitely not a confident, sexually liberated grown woman. Now she just wanted the floor to open up and swallow her whole….

Spike was silent for a long time, hands stroking her hair, and then he chuckled ruefully. “And that’s cause for tears, is it?”

“I’m not crying.” She wasn’t, she really wasn’t. She was just… up in her head. “You said _no thank you._”

“When?”

“When we… when we made the deal. You said you weren’t buying.”

“How many weeks ago was that?” Now he sounded annoyed. “And you’re the one who kept mentioning how it wasn’t part of the plan.”

“I know,” she mumbled, looking away. “It’s not.”

Spike made a strangled noise in the back of his throat. “Sodding hell, woman. Not like I’ve even bloody asked you, have I?”

“So you don’t want to.”

“I didn’t bloody say that!”

She looked at him then, feeling raw and vulnerable. “So… you do want to?”

He took her face in his hands and kissed her in response, lips urgent, and she sank into it, wrapping her arms around his neck, and… nope, no good, she was back up in her head again. They broke off at the same time, glaring into each other’s eyes.

“Look, it’s just… this is weird for me!” Buffy felt her lower lip starting a pout and reined it in before it got too far. This wasn’t the time to be cute and pouty. This was serious.

Spike’s eyebrows shot up sardonically. “Getting weird for me, too, pet.”

“I mean, you’ve been alive for, what, two hundred years?”

“Not quite,” he growled.

“I bet you’ve had sex like a million times.”

Spike’s mouth opened and closed, and then his face got all thoughtful.

Buffy’s hands tightened on the nape of his neck. “Oh my god, are you counting?”

“Multiplying, actually.” He shrugged.

“No math!” Buffy looked down again. “All we need is a big old _greater-than _sign. It doesn’t matter if it’s a million or a thousand or twelve or fifty bazillion, it’s still going to be greater than one.”

Spike’s hands tightened on her shoulders. “So?”

“So!” Buffy glared into his stupid blue eyes. “It’s not a big deal for you, is it? Just one more sexcapade in your three-hundred-year sexcation of sexness.”

“I’m not_ that_ old,” he huffed.

“It’s called _hyperbole_, Spike. Just trying to get to… okay, so my point is, I’ve only had sex once, and, like, it was a big deal for me. And not just for me. People died. The world almost ended. It was bad.”

“I remember. Was there, wasn’t I?”

“So I’m scared!” she blurted out, and oh, why had she said that? Rule number one, never tell your arch-enemy-slash-lover that you’re afraid. He was never going to let her live it down, he was totally going to rub it in, except no, the only rubbing that was happening was his hand gently rubbing circles between her shoulder blades, and then his arms were wrapped around her, and he was trembling.

“It’s not just you, love,” he whispered into her hair. “‘M bloody terrified.”

She pulled back, feeling wild. “So we shouldn’t--”

He grinned -- mad, bad, and dangerous. “Since when do we do what we _should_?”

“Since… since never.” Buffy bit her lip. “But now I’m all… all with the tense. Maybe….”

Spike looked at her measuringly, then shrugged. “It’s all right. We don’t need to shag tonight.”

Buffy felt weirdly disappointed at his easy capitulation. “Um, okay.”

“Had plans any road,” Spike breezed. “Was going to give you a lovely massage. Jasmine oil, perhaps a touch of pomegranate.”

“All right.”

He knuckled her head up, letting his lips brush hers as he spoke. “Going to oil you up proper, pet. Get you all warm and loose and relaxed. Then lay you back and lick your delicious cunt until you’re panting. All hot and wet and ready.”

That sounded better than all right. “Yeah. Um, let’s do that.”

“Then you can decide,” he whispered, catching her lower lip between his teeth.

“Decide?”

“Decide if that’s all you want for the evening… or if you want more.”

She was quivering now, all on tenterhooks, like he was telling a story and she wanted -- needed -- to know the end. “More what?”

“That’ll be up to you,” he murmured, pulling back just far enough to meet her eyes. “Can have more of my hands on you, or more of my tongue. Can suck my cock if you like, or have your wicked way with me with your hands, or perhaps just snuggle up by the heater and gossip about the bloody royals. Or--” His voice dropped nearly an octave, sinfully low and rich. “--you can fuck me.”

“Oh.” That was… that was way better than any of the ways she’d tried to say it.

“Whatever you want, love,” he continued in that dark-chocolate voice. “Can ride me if you like, or lay back and let me drive my cock into you. Sit just here, just like this, except with me filling you, pumping into you, over and over and over again. Can fuck you up against the wall, down on all fours, any way you want me. It’s all up to you.”

“But--”

“And if tonight’s not the night,” he went on, “then it’s not the night. There’s tomorrow, and the next day, and the next. Any time you want me, I’m yours.” His eyes narrowed, and his hands settled on her hips meaningfully. “Because I bloody well do _want to_. I want to bury my cock in you, fuck you until you can’t remember your own name, until the only words you can remember are _yes_ and _god_ and _more_, until you can’t even imagine what you were ever afraid of.” And then he kissed her, sweet and light, like a gift. “But I can wait.”

And oh, suddenly Buffy couldn’t.

_You were right, Cordelia,_ she thought dizzily as she kissed Spike back. _I _am_ going to fuck my boyfriend six ways to Sunday._

Not that she was going to tell him, not yet. Not when there was warm, fragrant oil just waiting to convince her, not when the whole of Spike's planned seduction was spread out before her, not when the Cliff's Notes version of Spike's wicked plan alone had her weak in the knees. She wanted it all, the whole shebang, and then she wanted _more_.

“So,” she said, shy in the face of her own resolution. “Um, you mentioned oil?”

He chuckled, head tilting down to press his forehead against hers. “Like to be pampered, do we?”

“Almost as much as you like to pamper me,” she replied, tossing her hair.

“What can I say?” He rubbed his nose against hers. “I just love to hear you purr, kitten.”

“You’re going to have to work for it,” she murmured into his lips, and then they were kissing, and oh yes, this was good, this was it, no more stumbling about in her head, no more confusion, just desire, and joy, and bright, bright purpose, and she slid off the sarcophagus, raising her arms as his hands grasped the hem of her silky halter, tugging it up and off between kisses, and then together they undid her slacks and slipped them off along with her boots, and when it seemed like Spike was going to stop there she hooked her own thumbs in her panties and skinned them down and off.

“Oil stains,” she said softly, arching her back as he drank in the sight of her naked body, and then she shoved his duster off his shoulders. “Now you.”

He yanked off his T-shirt, the speed betraying his arousal, and when he looked to stop there she set her own hands to his belt, holding her breath, but he just looked down at her hands as she undid his jeans, starting to pant again as she slid her hands around to his hips, thumbs hooking his belt loops so she could push his jeans down, letting her belly brush his erection. She knelt down to untie his boot laces, helping him toe the boots off, and then pulled his jeans off the rest of the way, slowly rising to her feet. She let her eyes drift across his body as she stood, smiling at the way his cock jumped under her gaze, and then turned to climb onto the sarcophagus.

Spike hadn’t just draped it in layers of thick towels; there was something underneath, a foam cushion or something that molded to her body as she lay on her stomach on the terrycloth. “How long did it take you to set this up?” she said conversationally, pretending she couldn’t hear him panting faster. God, that was hot.

He didn’t answer -- she could almost hear his shrug -- which meant it had taken longer than he cared to admit, of course, but she was okay with letting him pretend he was still the big bad when he was really a big softie, at least when it came to their private nest, and she closed her eyes, waiting.

The warm oil felt glorious, dribbled like liquid sunlight in the small of her back, and as his hands started to spread the oil out she moaned at the pleasure, the way his strong fingers dug in to her sore muscles just right, skating tenderly over the bruise on her hip where she’d been slammed into a mausoleum wall by one of tonight’s slays.

He was thorough, almost clinical in the way he sought out and demolished all her knots and little achies, and she turned her head to the side and watched him through her lashes, the way he stood beside the sarcophagus, completely at home in his nudity, not posing or preening as he focused on her back, and then he met her eyes and grinned and hoisted himself up to straddle her thighs.

“Leverage,” he said innocently.

“Oh?” Buffy arched beneath his hands. “So you’re telling me you don’t want to feel your skin against mine? All soft, and slippery, and warm….”

He snorted out a laugh, but then he was laying atop her, hands on either side of her ribcage as he rolled his chest against her back. “Like this?”

His cock was dizzyingly hard against her ass, and she almost let her legs just… slide apart, inviting him in, but no, not yet, she wasn’t ready for _more_ yet, and so she just laughed, feeling the catch of desire. “That’s… nice,” she teased.

He nipped gently at the nape of her neck. “‘M not nice.”

“Oh, did I cast aspersions on your evilness?” Buffy undulated against him playfully. “You want me to get all swoony about how bad you are, instead?”

“Bite your tongue.”

“Ooh,” Buffy moaned dramatically. “Oh, Spike, you’re just so _bad._ So _big_ and so _bad_. You’re the _big bad. _Ravish me, _Big Bad._”

He growled in her ear. “You are one step away, missy.”

“What? Are you going to scold me?” Buffy deliberately arched up, pressing her ass into his cock. “Come on, big bad,” she said in a normal tone of voice -- or as normal as she could manage, at least. “Less whining, more massaging, Mister I-Need-Leverage.”

Spike grumbled something under his breath, but got back to massaging, digging his thumbs into the persistent knots behind her shoulder blades, and she sank back into the soft towels, giggling softly. It wasn’t clinical any more, though -- his lips were on her almost as much as his hands, and when her back was all soft and relaxed, she felt his weight moving lower and lower, and she did let her legs slide apart then, feeling his oil-slick fingers on the insides of her thighs, and then he was licking her hungrily, and it was good, it was always good, except it was different this time, the urgency of arousal simmering instead of boiling, because... she knew. She’d decided. This wasn’t the end of things tonight, it was just a beginning, and even when he drove her right up over the edge of ecstasy, she floated blissfully on the certainty that tonight there was more, so much more, and when he urged her to roll over, she sat up instead, turning to face him. He was kneeling before her, holding the crucible of warm oil like an offering.

“Gimme,” she said coyly, holding out her cupped hands, and he smiled and poured the oil into her palms and she arched her back and poured dribbles and rivulets of oil over her breasts, cupping them to massage the oil in, thumbs rubbing her slick nipples.

“What’s this, then?” he asked, watching her hands, jaw going slack.

“Just getting into the spirit of things,” she smiled, and then she reached out and took his hands, tugging him closer until his knees were pressing her thighs wide, and she set his hands on her breasts, and as he groaned and caressed her, she slid her own slick hands along his chest and belly and curled them around his cock.

“More,” she demanded, pumping her fingers along his length.

“Oh, love,” he moaned, and then she was laying back and he followed her down, shifting and sliding against her until they were chest to chest, rubbing feverishly against each other, and then she tilted her hips up and slid her slick hands around to his ass, and then oh god she could feel him, feel him pressing into her, his eyes wide, pleading, terrified, but she wasn’t afraid anymore, she wasn’t afraid, and she smiled and nodded and opened to him and then he was inside, he was inside, and he swore and buried his face in her throat and she wrapped her arms around him and then they were moving together, striving, slippery and awkward, clutching desperately, but somehow perfectly in sync, and oh god she hadn’t imagined it would be like this, she’d never, never, and she was out of control, her world narrowed down to the look in his eyes and the feel of his flesh and she crescendoed, feeling herself pulse and flutter as he filled her and filled her and then his eyes opened wide and she watched his face as she felt him spend inside her, and she wanted to weep with the joy of it, the perfection, the completeness.

She cradled him close and closed her eyes, smiling.

“Bugger,” he muttered into her throat eventually. “Had planned on that going longer.”

“It was perfect,” Buffy said softly, shy again.

“It was,” he sighed agreeably.

“Definitely not nice,” she teased.

“Told you,” he said, annoyingly smug.

Buffy frowned. “Was it safe?”

“Come again?”

“I promised… never mind.”

Spike propped himself up on his elbow beside her. “Can’t put you up the spout.”

“I know.”

“Vamps don’t carry disease,” he continued.

“I _know_.” Buffy huffed out an annoyed breath. “I just promised… a friend. That I-- we’d have safe sex.”

Spike looked thoughtful. “And what were you thinking?”

“I wasn’t,” she laughed awkwardly. “Just forget it. There's nothing safe about us.”

"True." He kissed her throat tenderly. "Could kill you any time I want to."

"You could try. If I don't kill you first." Buffy poked a finger right over his heart.

"Mm." He ran his hand the length of her naked body, breast to hip to thigh. "Where you hiding the stake, love?"

She grinned, feeling reckless. "Wouldn't you like to know?"

He groaned and kissed her. “You'll be the death of me, all right.”

Buffy leaned into his kiss, feeling boneless and relaxed and…. “So,” she whispered. “What did you have planned for the rest of the night?”

“Doesn’t matter,” he whispered right back. “Told you. It’s all up to you.”

“Is it?” She smiled. “Well, I think I’m ready for_ more_. Whaddya say, big bad?”

He said yes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everybody stay safe, and please consider donating to local small performing arts organizations being hard hit by measures to contain COVID-19. These groups struggle to survive in the best of times, and your donation could make the difference.


	12. Chapter 12

When Spike made it back to the lair, just barely ahead of the rosy fingers of dawn, he did the math.

For decades, Spike had bragged about his exploits in the year he’d been turned, 1873 -- taking credit for the burning of Alexandra Palace, the Long Depression, and (his favorite) the Comstock Law in the United States. Over the years, he’d told variations of the story to rapt audiences of evil the world over, until he’d started hearing gratifyingly-inflated rumors about himself in countries he’d never even visited. It was part of the mythos he’d developed, how he’d been bad on an international scale from the moment he was turned.

It was all rubbish, of course, but who would ever contradict him?

Well, Angelus could, or Darla, but the latter was dust, and the former had dedicated himself so thoroughly to brooding – other than his brief return to form the year before – that who would believe him, even if he bothered to sound off? Which he never had, to Spike’s knowledge. And Dru, who -- as his sire -- would be the definitive one to know, had never denied a word of it, just smiling with mysterious pride at the telling. By now, the lie was so well-established that it rolled off his tongue with nary a hesitation – the year, his age, even the exact contents of the obscene package that had sent the United States Federal Government into a panic of postal regulation.

1880 was far less interesting.

Still, in the interest of mathematical inquiry, Spike used that, the actual year of his rebirth, as his starting point. If he was going to spend time totting up the sum of his sexual exploits, he might as well put in the effort to be accurate. He snagged a pen and ripped a corner off the unneeded geological survey map as he passed dear departed Brian’s dusty worktable and headed to his chambers. He flung himself on his bed, scribbling down numbers.

So, one hundred nineteen years since he’d awakened, wracked with bloodlust, scrabbling savagely at the rough wood of his pauper’s casket. Dru had been waiting when he emerged from the earth, and he’d known a different lust, one she’d sated that night and thereafter, as the mood took her. Not nightly, he supposed – but then there were nights they’d shagged from dawn to dusk, so perhaps an average of once per night? Particularly once one added in the occasional not-Dru encounters – Angelus and Darla did so like to exert dominance over their little family, and of course there was bloody Harmony. There had been a few times he’d been on his own, though – Germany, and Latvia, and that time he’d been stuck in bloody Aurora bloody Illinois – so perhaps he should take half a year off the total…? No, no, not when one added in the World Fair and Woodstock. That more than made up for the dry times, and Dru had always returned to him, whatever the whim that had whisked her away. So one hundred nineteen, multiplied by three hundred sixty-five – and a quarter, mustn’t forget leap years – came to… forty-three thousand four hundred sixty-five, rounding up. Nowhere near a million, but a respectable number. Even if he did take off that year.

He flung his pen off into the corner and glared up at the ceiling.

Why, after forty-three-bloody-thousand times, was he still bloody shaking from just one night spent shagging the slayer?

He’d talked a good talk, leading into it -- laid out a veritable smörgåsbord of sex before the slayer, knowing her well enough by now that she’d have to be tempted by something. He’d imagined it enough himself, pictured fucking the slayer from every possible angle and in every possible position -- and some he was certain weren’t possible, though he was willing to try -- and in his imaginings he’d been in control, playing the slayer’s body like a bloody harp over the course of hours, possibly days.

He hadn’t imagined that just the feel of her around him, so bloody hot and wet, would drive him right out of his bloody mind. He’d practically exploded on contact, and only a Herculean effort of will -- aided by fiercely picturing Angel’s Cro-Magnon face -- had kept him from coming immediately. As it was, the _hours_ he’d imagined had been mere minutes, because it hadn’t just been the feel of her cunt, it had been the whole of her, the look in her eyes and the sound of her cries and the salt of her sweat and her oil-slippery skin and her bitchiness and her sweetness and the scent of her, musky arousal and fragrant skin and whatever bloody diabolical shampoo she used, and all of it together, all of _her_, had conspired to rob him of all self-control, and he’d poured himself into her like he’d been dying again, he’d died as surely as he had in bloody 1880, except when he’d clawed his way back to life this time, he’d simply found… _her_, looking at him with moss-green eyes and trembling lips, bloody Scylla and Charybdis all at once.

He hated her. Oh, how he hated her, it burned in his unbeating heart and the pit of his stomach and his raging loins, burning and burning like the fires of damnation. He’d hated her more with every whisper of desire, every cry of passion, every tremble of ecstasy, until all he could imagine was drinking her down, making her his own, her life on his lips.

He hated her. God, he had to kill her soon. Now.

What was taking bloody Angel so bloody long?

He leapt back to his feet and started to pace, the energy sizzling under his skin too much to bear.

The slayer was so bloody precious, still. Her and her nattering about “safe sex” -- as if that was something Spike would ever care about! Fucking wasn’t meant to be safe, first off -- that was the whole bloody point, the risk, risking your body and your heart and your self, risking everything in pursuit of pleasure. And what the fuck did she think Spike was, a sodding toy poodle? The only way she’d be safe from his fangs would be if he was dust -- and dust didn’t bloody well put out, did it? Wasn’t dust had the slayer chanting his name like the bloody stations of the cross, was it? Wasn’t dust making her scream--

He bit off a yell of his own as his toe rammed into something hard and unyielding, painful even through his heavy boots, and he stumbled a few steps before catching himself, turning to glare at the culprit -- the sturdy underbed chest he kept his chains in. No wonder his toe felt bloody broken, kicking that much ironmongery and--

Spike narrowed his eyes, eyeing the chest. Which was not under his bed. Or at least not entirely under his bed, a good six inches sticking out to catch him, when he was bloody well certain it had been completely under his bed when he’d left just before sunset for the slayer’s bloody party.

Had someone been borrowing his chains?

Had someone been--

Eyes on the doorway in case one of the fellows came by, he strode over to his bookshelf, eyeing the middle shelf. The dust seemed undisturbed, but only one way to be sure; angling his body to block the view from the entrance, he carefully slid out one of the textbooks he’d nicked from the UC-Sunnydale bookstore when he and Brian had started their project, so he could know what the bloody engineer was talking about. _Principles of Geotechnical Engineering, Third Edition_, still with the yellow _USED_ sticker across the spine.

Opening the book to page sixty-nine -- of course -- he gazed in satisfaction at the Gem of Amara, still nestled safely in the rough hole he’d hollowed out in the center of the book.

There it was. His salvation. The slayer’s doom.

He snapped the book shut harshly. _When it’s time,_ he thought fiercely. _When I’m done with her._ The gem would be safe enough for a while longer -- and it wasn't as if he had a better place to hide it until he could put the bloody thing to use. The whole lair knew where he kept his car, he fought too vigorously for his pockets to be safe, and their posh hideaway crypt hadn't a safe nook or cranny. And he couldn't wear it without giving up the game far too soon. It wouldn't do for the slayer to notice his bruises vanishing instantaneously, especially since she'd got in the habit of kissing them all better.

He shoved the book back on the shelf, yanking his shirt off abruptly so he could use it to wipe up the telltale smear in the shelf’s dust, wiping all the shelves and the books and the bedstead and anything else that looked in need of a wipe-down, just to be certain he’d not left a clue to the Gem’s location.

Harmony. It had to be. She was the only one who knew he'd found the treasure. Good thing she was dumb as his bloody box of chains, and less useful. Still, wouldn’t do for things to drag on much longer. He trusted her not a whit, and he wouldn’t put it past her to flash her tits at someone smarter, get them to find the gem for her. Fortunate that he’d taken out Brian, in retrospect -- he’d been the only minion in the whole gang with more than two brain cells to rub together. Even the bloody pet Harmony had made herself wasn’t near as bright as he thought himself, the pretentious wanker. Spike had a little time.

Time to finish things properly.

Satisfied at last with the state of his shelves, he turned and glared once again at his box of chains, tossing his dusty shirt off into the corner. The same one as the pen had ended up in, as he did like things to be orderly.

He’d finish things, all right.

He just wasn’t done with Buffy yet. He'd show her _safe_. He'd show her….

He stilled with a sudden epiphany.

Ah. Yes. That was what he could show her. Show her tonight, no need to wait. They weren't meeting until late in the evening -- some rot about having a paper to research -- so he'd have plenty of time to set the stage. Perhaps even enough time to go nick some ironic goggles from the Chemistry lab.

After all, he wanted everything to be very, very _safe_.

*

“I’m telling you, it’s just not safe!”

Giles emerged from his kitchen as slowly as he could manage, swirling his glass of Glenfiddich around and around, soothingly, meditatively, in an effort to distract himself from the fact that, yet again, his living room was filled with American teenagers having an urgent, hushed conversation about something utterly meaningless, when it should be filled with nothing but himself, his Scotch, and a bit of light research. He was bloody well retired -- or mostly, he supposed, but being unpaid Watcher to a wayward slayer surely shouldn’t sentence him to these… _invasions._ Particularly when Buffy herself was not present, having made herself scarce the day previous after barely even looking at the sketch of the commandos that Giles had labored over for hours.

Either there was no justice in the world, or the Powers that Be had taken greater offense at his youthful experiments in demon-summoning than he could ever possibly have known, and this was his punishment. If it were the latter, he dearly hoped he would be given the opportunity to go back in time and give his younger self a good talking-to, because _really_.

But perhaps if he ignored the Scoobies, they’d go away.

He accordingly avoided eye contact and settled at his desk, turning on his work light and organizing his pens and pencils and otherwise making it very clear that he intended to work on something quite, quite boring and everybody should leave now.

They did not, sadly, take the hint.

“He saved my life, Xander,” Willow hissed, glancing nervously over at Giles. “What if he has turned good for good?”

“Buffy certainly seems to be happy,” Anya said in a bored voice. “Get over it, sweetie.”

“Yeah, but a vampire--” Xander broke off, sending Giles his own nervous, guilty look.

_Bloody hell._

“So Angel has returned, has he?” Giles said in a carrying voice.

The teens all fell silent, looking at him with huge eyes.

“No!” Willow finally laughed nervously. “That’s silly! Why would you think Angel was back in town?”

Giles pinched the bridge of his nose. “_Buffy, happy, vampire, get over it Xander._ Do tell me where my powers of deduction have failed me.”

Again he was greeted with silence. He would have sighed in bliss, were it not the particular sort of awkward, strained silence that inevitably meant Something He Did Not Wish To Know. Something about Angel.

Giles would be the first to admit his feelings towards the ensouled vampire were… complicated, as he supposed would be true of any father figure regarding a daughter’s former lover who also happened to be a murdering, torturing vampire. He’d tried to be accepting, for Buffy’s sake, and even succeeded on occasion. There had been times he’d regarded them with paternal kindness, wanting nothing more than for Buffy to enjoy their relationship, to have the love she so clearly desired. He’d treated Angel as an ally, entrusting him with Buffy’s safety many a time. It was hard not to look upon the souled vampire and his quest for redemption with a certain amount of sympathy.

And yet.

He had never been able to look at Angel’s face, hear his voice, without remembering. Remembering Jenny Calendar, cold and lifeless in his own bed, the scene a parody of the lovers’ rendezvous he’d expected. Remembering the torture he’d endured at Angel’s hands, the threats of worse that had only been stayed by cruel mental trickery that had turned his stoic resistance to failure. And more than that -- doting father that he was -- remembering the grief Buffy had endured due to Angel, over and over again -- when he lost his soul at the gift of her virtue, when her own hand sent him to hell to save the world, when she attempted murder to save him -- murder of her own sister slayer, corrupted though she may have been -- and then nearly given her own life to his greedy fangs, and finally, when he had walked away from her on her graduation day, leaving her bereft in her moment of victory…. Well, when he totted it all up like that, it was hardly a surprise Giles had settled on “quietly seething rage” as his standard Angel reaction. Particularly when he recalled how many of those terrible moments had occurred despite, or even because of, Angel’s lauded soul.

The phone calls didn’t help, either. It seemed they came whenever the wounds were starting to heal, whenever Giles was starting to forgive. _How is she? _Angel would ask, in that same voice that had once taunted and tormented him, but of course it wasn’t enough to reply that she was _quite well_ or _in excellent health _\-- no, he always wanted details, poking and prodding until he was finally satisfied. It had been the third or fourth phone call when Giles finally realized the common thread to all the details that finally satisfied Angel, the thing he really needed to know.

The calls always ended after Giles had admitted that Buffy was miserable.

He’d tested his theory, of course. One night, he’d kept Angel on the line for a good hour of cheerful news before he finally took pity (on himself, not Angel) and mentioned needing to stock up on ice cream for Buffy’s next visit. Another night, the call ended quite abruptly when he’d replied to Angel’s _how is she? _with a snapped, _she cries in the bathroom every bloody night, you bloody egotistical pillock!_

Angel hadn’t called for a good week after that.

Still, it had been quite some time since Buffy had actually seemed miserable; Giles had made up some faux misery to get Angel off the line the last few times, but lately had invested in a newfangled phone with Caller ID, just so he could avoid Angel’s calls. It seemed this had backfired, though, if Angel had come back to check up on her in person.

It was a good thing Giles was a gentleman; he could be civil even in the midst of his seething rage. Possibly even more polite than usual, though underlaid with bitter irony. And so the smile he turned on the secretive Scoobies was genial, approaching jovial.

Willow, at least, was smart enough to blanch at his expression.

“It’s not Angel!” she squeaked. “No Angel in town!”

“Ah. Then perhaps you can enlighten me as to which vampire you were discussing?”

Willow glared at Xander. “No vampires here.”

Xander opened his mouth and closed it again, expression mutinous.

“Xander,” Willow went on, cajoling. “We promised.”

“I didn’t promise anything,” he grumbled.

“Oh, for Pete’s sake,” Anya muttered. “Giles isn’t stupid. He’s going to figure out eventually that Buffy’s boinking Spike.”

Giles felt his heart stop.

Willow sprang to her feet, waggling her finger in agitation. “You said it! You said the thing that we’re not supposed to say…” She glanced nervously at Giles again. “...because it’s not true and we definitely don’t want Angel to ever find out about the thing that’s totally not true.”

“Giles was going to find out sooner or later anyhow,” Anya shrugged.

Giles felt his hand removing his glasses, his other hand trembling as it pulled out a handkerchief from his pocket and started to wipe in circles. Soothingly. Meditatively. “Buffy’s doing what?” his voice said quietly.

“Boinking Spike.” Anya frowned at him. “Is there something wrong with your hearing? You are getting kind of old.”

He set his glasses back on his face. Damn, another spot. He removed them and cleaned them again, more carefully. That was better. He took a sip of his very fine Scotch, and another, setting the glass back on his desk, and then carefully straightened a pencil that had been knocked askew by his glass, before turning his gaze back to Willow, Xander, and Anya.

“Buffy’s… doing… _what?_” he asked in his most reasonable tone of voice.

“Don’t tell Angel!” Willow blurted out.

That called for another glasses-cleaning. “And why,” he said, “would I tell Angel something that I am quite certain I heard incorrectly?”

“Because Buffy’s happy,” Xander said grudgingly.

Willow nodded vigorously. “Really, really happy. Giles, she’s glowing. Angel would just be a big old party-pooper.”

“It isn’t actually fair for an ex to have a say in what someone does after they break up,” Anya said seriously. “I can’t tell you how many vengeance calls I had to shut down because of that. Sorry, honey, if you broke up a month ago, you can’t wish chlamydia onto your ex-boyfriend’s penis for going on a date last week.”

“Spike?” Giles asked faintly, as the Scoobies started to talk all at once.

“I keep offering to buy her a Bloody Mary, and she keeps saying no--”

“--but she says he’s trying to be good, and you know, he did save me from Veruca--”

“--there was one time, over in India, where a girl asked me to take revenge on her boyfriend--”

“_Spike?_”

“--and let me tell you, I think he plays pool evilly, too, because there’s no way he could have made that bank shot without an active deal with the devil--”

“--and she sings all the time, it kinda drives me crazy but it’s also kinda cute--”

“--and then it turns out that she wanted vengeance because he was still hung up on his old girlfriend who the new girlfriend had had killed in the first place, which, hello, brought that on yourself--”

Giles downed the last of his Scotch. “_Buffy_ is… with _Spike?_”

His voice must have got a trifle loud, because they all fell silent and looked at him.

“Buffy… Buffy says he’s reformed,” Willow ventured cautiously.

“Buffy says that, does she?”

“And he helps her on patrol. You know, um, how you mentioned that her numbers were going up? That’s because Spike helps her now.”

“Does he?”

“And, um, he saved me from Veruca the skankwolf.”

“Did he, indeed?”

“Look,” Anya interjected. “Buffy didn’t want you to know, because she said you’d tell Angel, and he’d come down and be a big jerk. Are you going to do that?”

_How is she?_

“No,” Giles said firmly. “I have no intention of telling Angel anything. He has no right to interfere in Buffy’s life anymore.”

“That’s what I said,” Xander grumbled.

“But _you’re_ not going to be a big jerk, are you?” Willow’s face was slack with concern. “I mean, you’re not going to, you know, run out with a crossbow and put a stake in Buffy’s happiness, are you?”

“What I am going to do,” Giles replied, “is have myself another glass of Scotch while you tell me what is going on, slowly, one at a time. Then I think it would be wise for me to have a talk with Buffy.”

“Us,” Willow said quickly. “I, um… it would be good if we were all there. For support.”

“That is the standard procedure for an intervention,” Anya nodded.

Xander raised his hand. “Can I help intervene?”

“We’re not intervening,” Willow mumbled. “We’re just, you know, supporting Buffy in her happiness while allowing Giles to present his, um, very reasonable concerns.”

“You already tried intervening,” Anya said to Xander. “It didn’t work.”

“Yeah, but with Giles here--”

Willow planted her hands on her hips. “Oh, so now we’re asserting the patriarchy?”

The bloody teenagers descended once again into chaotic argument, and Giles wearily stood and headed back to the kitchen, where his decanter awaited.

It was going to be a long night.

*

It had been a really long night.

Buffy had been good. Dutiful, even. She’d started out by working on the research paper she’d been neglecting for the past couple of weeks, all studious Buffy in the library with the reading and the copious notes and photocopies, and then she’d met up with Spike in front of her dorm, and they’d gone on a longer-than-usual patrol, because the previous night’s patrol had been called early on account of sex.

Okay, so about half her copious notes and photocopies had been related to the Cordy-research-book she’d snuck into the library, not the economic effects of the industrial revolution, and their patrol may have been slightly extended by a spontaneous makeout session behind the maintenance shed of Restfield Cemetery, but she’d _tried_ to be dutiful Buffy, and she was totally going to get at least a B on that paper if she managed to separate out the history-notes from the sex-notes, and they had staked a good dozen vampires on either side of the makeout session, so… win-win?

Spike had been acting weird, though. Kind of bouncy and smug, which she supposed was normal Spike, but more so, like Spike to the eleventh power, like spiked Spike, like… she was out of similes, but anyhow, it was weird.

But then, Buffy didn’t really know what it was like to hang out with a guy after you’d had sex and while you were anticipating having even more sex. That obviously hadn’t been how things had gone with Angel. It had been sex, then evil, then grief, then not-dating, then sort-of-dating, then not-dating again, then Prom, then leaving… so never like this. Never this feeling of… sex continuity. Like sex was a good thing that had happened before and would happen again.

And maybe Spike wasn’t actually being weird. Maybe all guys bounced around like hyper wolf puppies after they’d gotten some. Maybe this was how things were supposed to go when you had sex?

But anyhow, they were headed back to their crypt now, and they were holding hands, which was both nice and weird, and every so often he’d look at her sidelong, like he had a secret, and every so often she’d smile at him like _she_ had a secret, even though the only secret she had was _yes, I too think it is time for The Sex_, and it was weird and nice and not-nice and weird and she didn’t quite know how to handle it. She almost tried figuring out how to handle it by imagining _what would Cordelia do? _except that she didn’t want to be Cordelia, she wanted to be Buffy.

Being Buffy was, for once, actually kind of awesome.

Spike stepped in front of her just as they got to the crypt door, taking up her other hand and bringing both to his lips, fervently kissing her knuckles. "Got a surprise for you," he murmured, eyes glittering.

"What?" Buffy teased. "You've installed a surround-sound speaker system?" Despite herself, Buffy was stirred by the intense look in his eyes.

"Better." He ushered her in the door, gesturing proudly at the far wall.

Buffy stared and stared, but no, she wasn't seeing things.

"Wow," she said at last. "Chains."

They looked like they meant business, too -- long lengths of heavy dark iron links, attached to metal rings in the wall, with manacles at the ends. The floor in front of the wall was covered in a thick layer of blankets and cushions, silk and chenille and probably more foam, and it looked completely decadent and naughty and a little bit scary.

Spike slid behind her, arms slipping around her waist. "Like them?" he purred into her ear.

"You want to chain me up."

He chuckled into her hair. "Maybe later, if you like." He caught her earlobe in his teeth, gently. "Was thinking you might like to chain _me_ up, first."

She swallowed, feeling lightheaded. One of the books on Cordelia's reading list had had an extensive section on bondage that she'd read with scandalized interest. She'd always thought of… chains and stuff… as way outside the realm of Normal People Sex, something one might hear about in a Depeche Mode song or see laughed at in a Quentin Tarantino movie, but the book had kinda hinted that it was something that lots of people did, not just... bad girls.

And she scolded herself the second she even thought that. Hadn't she already thrown all her preconceptions of Buffy the Good Girl out the window? This whole thing she had with Spike might have started out being about revenge, but along the way it had most definitely expanded to include getting to try new things, exploring her sexuality, and it had been fantastic. Scintillating. Mind-blowing.

Did she want to try this?

"So," she said softly, stalling as she considered that. "Why exactly did you decide chains were the next step in our… whatever this is we have?"

He kissed her throat tenderly. "You said you wanted safe sex."

Laughter bubbled up from her belly. "And how is this safe?"

"Restraining the wild beast," he murmured, his chest shaking with mirth.

"Are there little fang-manacles that I'm missing in this setup? Chains won't keep you from biting me."

He kissed her throat again. "That they would not. But you would have an unfair advantage in any fight."

She elbowed him lightly. "Are you saying I need an unfair advantage?"

"Are you saying you wouldn't take it? I've seen you fight, love. You fight dirty, and you fight to win." His arms tightened around her waist. "Like me. So, what are you thinking?"

"I am thinking this is not at all what I had in mind when I mentioned safe sex."

"Mmm. I expect not." He leaned in to her ear. "Chain me up, love. Make me your prisoner."

"You want this," Buffy said slowly, skin tingling. "You want me to chain you up."

"Yeah."

"Why?"

She could feel his grin against her shoulder. "Guess."

"It turns you on?"

He laughed softly. "Got it in one. Feel." And he ground his hips against her ass, his cock rock-hard against her.

Buffy stepped forward out of Spike's arms, her feet sinking into the soft cushions on the floor as she slowly approached the chains. She reached out and hefted one of the manacles in her hands. Heavy. She turned back to Spike, who had followed her, his hands stroking her back. "Where are the keys?"

He jerked his head towards the sarcophagus; she followed his gaze to the glint of metal.

"All right then." Buffy took a deep breath and laced her fingers in Spike's right hand, lifting it up between them. Eyes fixed on his, she fastened the manacle around his wrist.

His eyes nearly rolled back in his head, and oh god, the sight had her quivering with arousal already. She stepped around him to the other manacle, securing his other wrist; her hands were trembling as she did it.

Spike gazed at her, his expression soft and naked, and he lifted his hands to her cheeks, tilting her up for a deep, shaky kiss. The chains clinked across her breasts, cold and heavy, solidly real.

This was real.

She stepped back again, one step after another, until she was beyond the reach of the chains. Spike stood proudly, hands fisted at his sides, eyes hungry and desperate and dangerous and-- "We need a safe word," she said hastily.

He rolled his eyes. "We're not safe, love."

"The books said," she insisted. "So, um, if you want me to stop you have to say… um… say cheese."

He grinned. "What if I'm on candid camera?"

"Then just smile."

"What if I want to cover your sweet body with slices of cheese and eat them all off?"

"Oh, for-- did you bring any cheese tonight?"

He pouted. "No."

"Then tonight the word is cheese. If you ever want to do the cheese thing, we can pick a different word."

He rolled his eyes again. "You know I'm not going to say it."

"That's your choice." Buffy set her hands on her hips, regarding him thoughtfully. "So, you're my prisoner."

Spike leaned insouciantly against the wall. "That I am."

"And I can do what I want with you."

He regarded her through his eyelashes. "That you can."

Buffy smiled sweetly, inspiration striking. "But you want me to do things to you. So… maybe I won't." He stood up again, eyes narrowing and jaw clenching, and she let her grin widen. "Maybe I'll just make you watch."

And she turned her back on him and began to strip.

"Too bad you didn't install that surround-sound system," she said nonchalantly as she let her jacket slide down her arms. "Could use a little music for this." She started to hum, something kind of like that cheesy stripper music from cartoons.

"Doing fine without," Spike murmured as she slowly peeled her sweater off over her head, turning again so he could see her breasts.

She tossed the sweater off to the side and ran her palms the length of her body, over her bra and stomach and hips. “You know what the theme song is for this part of the show? ‘U Can’t Touch This.’”

The chains clinked as Spike tested their reach. “Bitch,” he said adoringly.

“Asshole,” she crooned back. “What should I take off next?”

He swallowed convulsively. “Trousers. Want to see your cunt.”

“Since when do you get what you want?” Buffy laughed, and unhooked her bra instead, turning her back on him. She wriggled out of the straps and held the bra out to one side dramatically before dropping it.

“Turn around,” he growled.

“I don’t think so.” Feeling dizzy with power and arousal and something like joy, Buffy cupped her own breasts, thumbs stroking her sensitive nipples. “Oh!”

“Let me see.”

“Maybe.” Buffy sent a wicked glance over her shoulder. He was as close as the chains would allow, eyes riveted on her. “Ask me nicely.”

“Please,” he said quickly. “Please let me watch.”

“Oh, I suppose.” Buffy turned around, leaning up against the sarcophagus as she fondled her breasts, watching him watch her, and then she slid one hand down and popped the button on her jeans, still humming, though she’d gone from the silly music to something more lilting and joyful. She was having fun, she realized, and the thought frightened her for a moment before she caught herself.

_It’s supposed to be fun_, she thought fiercely. _It’s all about having fun._

She pushed herself up to sit on the sarcophagus to remove her boots, tossing them playfully in Spike’s direction, and then she peeled off her socks -- those she balled up and threw straight at Spike’s chest -- and then she slid off to her feet again, undoing the zipper of her jeans as he watched her, still and focused. She turned around again as she shimmied her pants off, running her hands over her ass as she exposed it, giggling when he swore. “Can’t touch this either,” she said lightly, snapping the string of her thong. She stepped out of her jeans and kicked them aside, running her hands down the outside of her thighs.

Spike groaned. “Buffy--”

“Call me ‘Slayer,’” she said sharply over her shoulder.

He growled deep in his throat. “_Slayer._”

“That’s better.” Buffy turned slowly, leaning back against the sarcophagus, running one hand down to stroke herself through her panties. “Enjoying the show?”

He nodded wordlessly, watching her fingers.

“Do you know, I used to think masturbation wasn’t for me?” she asked conversationally, dipping her fingers inside her underwear. She was wet and slick and sensitive, and she shuddered as she stroked herself.

“Look like a bloody natural to me,” Spike said softly. “Take your knickers off, love.”

“Oh, you can’t see what I’m doing?” Buffy laughed and peeled her sodden thong off, tossing it aside and leaning back with her legs spread. “How’s this?” She ran her fingers through her wetness, panting at the sensation and the look in Spike’s eyes.

“Brilliant,” Spike moaned, chest heaving.

“I love the way you breathe when you’re turned on,” Buffy said, still stroking. “Like, you don’t even need to, do you? But you get all gaspy and overcome.”

“Just breathing you in,” he retorted.

“Want to see me come?” Buffy started to stroke faster, feeling the tingles starting, but she’d already learned, the tingles were just the beginning, and so she kept on and kept on until the tingles had spread, until her whole body was rigid with ecstasy, and she pressed her fingers down and felt herself pulsing and pulsing, and she lifted her eyes to Spike’s and wanted to cry at the tenderness she saw there.

“Beautiful,” he said softly. “You’re bloody beautiful, Slayer.”

When her legs seemed like they might work again, she pushed off the sarcophagus -- grabbing the keys on her way -- and walked forward until she was right in front of Spike, dropping the keys just out of his reach. She held out her fingers, glistening with her juices, and he wordlessly sucked them into his mouth, tongue laving each one until they were clean.

“You know,” she said, eyeing him, “we really should have got you naked before we chained you up.”

He grinned ferally. “Do what you will, love. Just don’t bruise the leather.”

She rolled her eyes and took the collar of his T-shirt in her hands, ripping it and ripping it until it was split down the center. “Trust me, I have respect for the priciness of leather goods.” She ran her hands along his bare chest. “This’ll do.” She stepped back out of reach, regarding the effect. He was still drinking in the sight of her, and that gave her another wicked idea; she took the shreds of his shirt in her hands and ripped and ripped until she had a long strip of black fabric, and then she stepped forward, rubbing her breasts against his smooth chest as she reached up and tied the fabric over his smoldering eyes.

He was unfazed, his grin widening. “Knew you’d take to this,” he said smugly.

“Shut up,” she whispered, and then tilted up to kiss him. He kissed her back like he was drunk, tongue sloppy and lips shaking, tasting like whiskey and smoke and her.

When she stepped away, his eyebrows shot up, expressive despite the blindfold. “Now what?”

“Lie down.”

The chains were just long enough for Spike to lie with his arms out to the side, elbows on the ground and wrists in the air; he wriggled down into position and stretched like a cat once he was all laid out before her. “Gonna fuck me, love?” he purred.

“Not right this second.” Buffy walked forward until her feet were on either side of his ribcage, looking down at him imperiously, pretending she wasn’t nervous, and he grinned blindly up at her like the asshole he was, and she sank down to her knees, shins pressing his biceps into the pillows, and he knew what she wanted, of course he knew, because his tongue was right there, licking at her wet folds as she settled down, and she cried out and scrabbled for support, hands finally finding the taut chains; she clutched at them as he licked and sucked and nibbled and oh god she was already there, she was coming again, and she ground her pussy into his mouth and cried out, voice hoarse and low, and he laughed into her, the vibrations of his mirth sending jolts all through her.

“Don’t stop,” she managed, and he just kept on laughing and licking and groaning with pleasure until she was quaking, and her eyes popped open and she stared at the stone wall, blank and featureless and dusty, and before she could think about it she stood and turned, falling back to her knees except facing the other direction, so his body was laid out before her, the perfect view, and he licked her once and swore before doubling down, and then she was leaning forward and her hands were stroking down his chest to his belly and beyond, unbuckling his belt and unbuttoning his jeans and unzipping his zipper and there was his cock, all smooth and silky and hard, and she didn’t even think, just kept on leaning until it was in her mouth, salty-sour and thick and oh god, he was moaning into her as he licked and she sucked him deep, running her tongue over the head, pumping him in and out, suddenly frantic, desperate to make him come and then his back arched and he spilled into her mouth, cold and salty and she let his dripping cock plop out of her mouth and sprawled across his body as he kept on at her pussy, sucking tenderly at her clit now like it was a ripe cherry, and she pumped his cock until it was hard again -- not long, yay vampire -- and then she couldn’t wait any longer, she scrambled down his body and wriggled around until she was facing him, his cock hard between her legs, and she bit her lip and angled him up and shifted her hips around until oh god, there, and then he was inside her and she nearly screamed as she took him deep and froze, panting.

Spike swore.

“Sorry,” she gritted out, hands splayed across his taut stomach. “I’ve never -- just let me figure this out.”

He ground his hips up into her. “Don’t bloody apologize, Slayer. Just -- oh, bloody hell!”

She swirled her hips again, grinning. “Like that?”

“You’re a bloody genius,” Spike moaned. “Anything you want. Just fuck me.”

“Anything, huh?”

He grinned then, madly. “Just play, kitten.”

And so she played.

She swirled and pumped and undulated, shifting angles and pressure, finding the ones that didn't quite work and laughing with Spike as they got back on track, finding the ones that made Spike swear the loudest, pushing him until she could feel he was trembling on the brink, and then slowing things down, rocking tenderly against him until his teeth were gritted desperately. She leaned back and stroked her clit as she rocked, coming hard around him -- that made him laugh, sharp and joyful -- and she rode him fast and slow, loving the way he bucked beneath her. And when she was almost exhausted, she lay forward across his chest, trying to kiss him but missing half the time as they rocked and rocked together, his hips jolting hard against her until he convulsed with release, going limp and boneless beneath her, and she nuzzled into his chest, mind racing as fast as her pulse.

_Wow._

She leaned over to get the keys, straddling his chest as she unlocked his wrists one at a time, and when he was free he wrapped his arms tight around her and rolled her over until she was lying on the cushions and his head was buried in her chest as he clutched her. He was shaking like a leaf.

She stroked his back and his hair until his trembling subsided, feeling sated and loose and messy and strong.

After a bit he raised his head, and she bit her lip, suddenly worried that she hadn’t done it right, that the books had lied to her, that he was going to tease or mock or…. Not that it mattered. He might be her boyfriend, sort of, but it wasn’t like they were in love.

It wasn’t like this mattered. Except… it sort of did.

But his eyes were soft and somehow reverent, and he oozed up to kiss her, and his lips were still shaking.

“Thank you, love,” he whispered, and then he curled into her again, sighing, and she held him tight and smiled.

“You’re welcome,” she murmured, a tiny part of her laughing at how polite they were all of a sudden, when they were mortal enemies, and just a few minutes ago they’d been sloppily fucking and swearing at each other and doing things Buffy had never dreamed she’d even want to do. It was definitely weird.

Weird but nice.


	13. Chapter 13

Giles schooled his face to vague half-interest when Buffy finally strolled through his door -- three days after he’d left a message asking her to pay him a visit, as he had something quite urgent to discuss.

Three. Bloody. Days.

“Ah, Buffy,” he said blandly. “So good of you to drop by.”

She flushed, catching the implied rebuke -- she had caught on to some of his nuances of expression over the years -- and shut the door behind her. “Yeah, I, um, got your message.” She took a few steps forward, unwinding a scarf from around her neck, and then froze. “Oh. Um, hi, guys. I didn’t know you were going to be here.”

Giles glanced over his shoulder towards the couch. “Ah, yes. They did ask that they could be present for this.” It seemed wise to approach this sticky situation subtly; Buffy was smart enough to smell a rat if they were too obvious.

Willow waved hesitantly over the back of the couch. “Hi, Buffy.” She bit her lip. “Don’t worry. We’re your friends.”

“Yeah,” Xander said with forced geniality. “We only want you to be happy.”

“Ugh!” Anya stood abruptly and planted her hands on her hips. “What have you been doing? We’ve been here every day for the past three days waiting for you. Xander turned down a construction job at the university to be here.”

_Ah, yes_, Giles thought wryly. _Very subtle indeed._

“Waiting. So you could be here for _this._” Buffy glared at Giles, face suspicious. “What is _this_?”

“Something _quite urgent_,” Giles said briskly.

“So you said.” Buffy frowned. “Is it about the commandos? Because I haven’t seen any of them since the last time I was here. It’s like they vanished into thin air.”

“Buffy, I’m sorry!” Willow’s voice was overlaid with tears, and Giles sighed. It had been a very weepy three days.

“Xander, she’s crying again,” Anya muttered, her irritated voice aptly expressing exactly what Giles could not.

“We didn’t mean to tell,” Willow sniffled. “It was Anya. Anya told him. I told her not to!”

“That’s right, blame it on the ex-demon,” Anya sniped.

“Tell.” Buffy’s eyes widened. “Oh. You mean… you mean you _told_?”

Giles frowned. He knew Buffy’s betrayed voice -- had earned it, much to his everlasting regret -- but that hadn’t sounded betrayed. If he didn’t know better, he’d think she sounded… gleeful?

“I can’t believe this!” Buffy finished unwinding her scarf and hung it on Giles’s coat tree with a huff. “You promised!”

Xander raised a finger. “Technically, we didn’t--”

Buffy hung up her coat and squared her shoulders before turning back, eyes searching Giles’s face. “What did they say?”

Giles repressed a grimace. _They_ had said rather a lot, over the past few days -- much of it incomprehensible or unbelievable -- but he felt he had gleaned the gist of actual events from their hysteria, maudlin weeping, and blunt sarcasm. (Xander, Willow, and Anya, respectively.) “I am given to believe that you have, er, embarked on a relationship with William the Bloody.”

“And?” Buffy folded her arms. “Is this an intervention, or something?”

“Not at all, not at all,” Giles rushed to reassure her. “I merely felt, well….”

“It’s dangerous,” Xander said suddenly. “We’re worried for your safety.”

“Oh, am I supposed to go sit in that… that chair that has mysteriously been put in front of the fireplace so you can all tell me not to do what I’m doing, in a format that is exactly like an intervention in every way, and then you’re going to call Angel so he can come down here and put a stop to this?”

Good lord, she certainly jumped to conclusions quickly. “Now, let’s not be hasty--”

“Nobody’s calling Angel,” Willow said earnestly, scrubbing tears away from her cheeks. “We really do just want you to be happy. But, um, since Giles knows now, he kind of wanted… not an explanation, because that’s too demandy, but, um… you know how in the movies, the dad likes to wave around his shotgun and threaten his daughter’s new boyfriend, even though he totally wouldn’t really shoot him unless he bit-- um, did something not nice to her? That.”

“Except he doesn’t have a shotgun,” Anya continued, nodding vigorously. “He has a crossbow. Which is actually much scarier for a vampire.”

Willow glared at Anya. “But he wouldn’t shoot him. Um, I told Giles how… how Spike saved me from Veruca. And about the patrolling and the, um, the nice stuff.”

Buffy’s cheeks pinkened. “The_ nice _stuff?”

“Well, we didn’t talk about the sex,” Anya said cheerily.

“Hey!” Xander cast Buffy a panicked look. “We don’t know that they’re having sex.”

Anya rolled her eyes. “Xander, you said that if they were anybody else--”

“But we don’t _know_,” Xander interrupted. “They could be, um… they could be spending all night, uh--”

“If I may,” Giles interrupted in his best lecture voice. “I would like to hear Buffy’s account of precisely what is going on.”

Buffy sighed and stomped around the couch, plunking herself down in the chair they’d set up for her. “Okay. Let’s get this over with so you can call Angel. Yes, I am dating Spike.”

“‘I’ statements only,” Willow whispered over her shoulder to Giles.

'I' _am far too old for this,_ he thought testily.

“Here’s an ‘I’ statement,” Buffy said brightly. “_‘I’ _would like to get on with tonight’s patrol. _'I'_ have actual plans. In fact, _'I'_ have a date. Can we get a move on?”

The youngsters all exchanged awkward glances, and Giles sighed.

“Buffy,” Xander finally said, voice earnest. “I am really worried about you. I don’t want to see you… well, making the same mistakes again.”

Buffy’s eyebrows shot up. “The same mistakes? It’s not the same at all.” She crossed her legs defiantly. “Spike is nothing like Angel.”

“No!” Willow glared at Xander. “We know he’s not. He’s, um, Spike’s blond. And he’s….”

“Evil?” Xander suggested. “Buffy, he doesn’t have a soul.”

“Now sweetie, I told you that’s not technically true,” Anya whispered loudly.

“_Does_ he have a soul?” Giles asked, ignoring the whispered conversation between Xander and his girlfriend.

Buffy’s eyes narrowed. “No. But he doesn’t need one. He’s… he’s being good without it. He hasn’t been killing or hurting humans, or drinking any human blood.” She jittered her dangling leg.

“Really, Buffy, you can’t just believe--”

“Willow helped us,” she said firmly. “She helped me prove it.”

Giles turned his gaze on Willow, whose eyes were huge.

“I didn’t, um… that wasn’t-- I didn’t know that’s what she wanted it for,” she stammered nervously.

“Willow gave me these promise crystals,” Buffy explained. “They turn black if you break a promise. Spike promised that he wouldn’t do any of those things, and he hasn’t. His crystal hasn’t turned black.”

Giles regarded her dubiously. “And you’re certain these… promise crystals work?”

“Hey!” Willow squeaked.

“They work great.” Buffy bit her lip. “I, um… I made a promise, too. And I broke it, and my crystal turned black. They totally work.” His disbelief must have shown on his face, because Buffy’s expression hardened. “He promised to be good for me. Are you saying I’m not good enough inspiration for that?”

“Of course, not, Buffy, I--”

“He saved Willow from Veruca, even when he thought I was going to stake him for it.” She stood up suddenly. “He saved you, too.”

Giles blinked. “Pardon?”

“When Angel..._us_ captured you. Back in high school, when he was trying to summon Acathla. Spike saved you.”

“Buffy, what on earth are you--”

“We had a truce,” she blurted out, eyes suddenly wide. “He was pretending he still needed the wheelchair, but he didn’t, he could walk, and he… he came to find me, and we made a deal. He agreed to help me fight Angel, and I agreed he could leave with Drusilla, but only… only if he kept you alive.”

“He didn’t--” Giles broke off, thinking back. He’d been defiant, even broken by pain -- he couldn’t remember what he’d said, something deliberately enraging, and Angel had reached his limit.

_All right, that's it. Someone get the chainsaw._

_Now, now. Don’t let’s lose our temper…. You cut him up, you’ll never get your answers._

“Dear lord,” he murmured.

_You have your way with him, you’ll never get to destroy the world. And I don’t fancy spending the next month trying to get librarian out of the carpet. There are other ways._

Giles rounded on Buffy, suddenly furious. “It was his idea to have that… If it weren’t for his interference, Angel would never have known how to awaken Acathla.” _I would have died before willingly revealing the answer._

Buffy lifted her chin. “You’re alive, aren’t you? And I took care of Acathla… with Spike’s help.”

“Wait.” Xander held up a hand. “You had a truce? You didn’t tell me about a truce.”

“No, I told you to get Giles out,” Buffy said, still glaring straight at Giles. “The truce was my business.”

Willow was staring at Buffy now, lower lip trembling. “You never said….”

Buffy sighed then, sinking back into her chair. “There was a lot I never said about… about that night.” She looked off to the side. “I didn’t like talking about it. But Spike really did help me. He saved Giles, and he helped me fight Angel and took Drusilla out of the fight.” She cast a glance up at Giles and then away, almost guiltily. “Angel and Spike, um, don’t get along. They hate each other. If Angel knew we were, um, together, he’d-- well, he’d probably come down here to break us up.”

“With a stake?” Anya looked more interested than she had all night.

Buffy shrugged. “Probably.”

Giles was still reeling, though he managed to ground himself in mundanity, slowly removing his glasses and cleaning them. By the time he replaced them on his face, he’d regained at least a portion of his equilibrium, though he could not quite bring himself to put his handkerchief away.

He had definitely not had enough Scotch prior to this meeting.

Meeting.

“I’d like to meet with him. Speak to him,” he said, feeling sudden clarity. “To Spike.”

Buffy’s eyes widened. “What, now?”

“No!” Dear lord, he needed some time to prepare. “Perhaps… you had asked to use my kitchen on Thursday? For the holiday.”

“Thanksgiving,” Buffy said, nodding automatically, then gasping. “You want me to bring him over for _dinner_?”

Giles shrugged helplessly. “It is, well, the traditional method for, er, getting to know one’s…” _daughter’s_ “...one’s slayer’s… boyfriend.” He could not quite suppress a wince as he said it.

Xander was gaping at Giles like he’d just started dancing about in a tutu -- ah, yes, that was what he’d said to Angel -- and Willow was smiling at Buffy with woeful encouragement, and Anya was inspecting her manicure disinterestedly, and Buffy… Buffy looked like she could think of nothing more horrifying than inviting Spike over for Thanksgiving dinner.

Which meant this was almost certainly the right course of action.

“Don’t worry,” Giles said calmly, tucking his handkerchief back in his pocket now that he knew what was what. “I’ll take care that my shotgun is not loaded.”

_My crossbow, on the other hand…._

*

“Is this thing loaded?” Buffy squinted into the barrel of the elaborately chased pistol.

Spike rolled his eyes. “Do you think that’s the way to check? You’ll shoot your bloody eye out.”

Buffy planted her hand on her hip. “What? I don’t usually play with guns. Guns are stupid.”

He couldn’t help but grin at that. “You’re right. Rocket launchers are much more ladylike.”

She grinned back at him, pleased. “Oh, you heard about that?” She spun the pistol around one finger.

“Heard the wailing and gnashing of teeth after.” He shrugged. “Thought you were bloody brilliant.” Had served Angelus right, getting kicked in the family jewels after waltzing in and taking over the Judge, Spike’s hard-won present for Drusilla. He’d pulled in dozens of favors to complete the big blue bastard, only to have him blown up on his maiden voyage. Pity Angelus hadn’t been caught in the blast, the wanker. Would have saved everyone involved loads of misery.

“I _was_ brilliant, wasn’t I?” Buffy preened at the compliment. “‘No weapon forged,’ my happy ass.” She squinted at the pistol again. “You know, Xander’s still got that thing in his garage. We tried to figure out how to get it back where it belonged, but it turns out once you steal a missile launcher from a military base, they kind of go on high alert for a while. Eventually we gave up.”

“Yes, very interesting.” Spike rattled the chains attached to his wrists. “Now, could we get on with it?”

“Where did you get the costumes?”

Spike glanced down at himself. “They’re bloody clothes, not costumes. Had them lying around.”

Buffy’s eyebrows shot up. “What, you were an extra in _The Pirates of Penzance_?”

“Had them a long time, love. Haven’t worn them since they went out of fashion.”

“And the wig? The glasses?”

“Came in handy on occasion.” One advantage of a distinctive hairstyle -- it didn’t take much to become unrecognizable. That wig had got him and Dru out of Prague alive, if nothing else.

She ran a hand over her own outfit. “And what about this?”

He grinned. “Had that lying around, too.”

“Ooh. I bet the corset looked good on you.”

“That it bloody well did.” He gave her a leisurely perusal. “Looks better on you.”

“Well, duh.”

He shook his chains again pointedly. “Can get started any bloody day now.”

“You gonna answer my question?”

“Which question?”

“Is the gun loaded?”

“Oh for-- It’s not even a real gun. It’s made of bloody plastic.”

“Is it?” Buffy inspected the pistol again. “Huh. I guess it is. You know, it’s really well made.”

God, he hated her. “Yes, one of the finest products of sodding Bhutan. Can we--”

“It says _Made In China._”

“Same bloody continent.”

“Is it? I’ve never heard of Bhutan. I bet you made it up.”

Spike gritted his teeth. “Are you actually _trying_ to bloody piss me off?”

She grinned wickedly. “Yep. Is it working?”

“Like a bloody charm. I bloody well hate you.”

“I hate you too, honey,” she replied, blowing him a kiss, and went back to inspecting the ersatz pistol.

Spike bit back another retort and settled in to fuming as the slayer kept at her little keep-Spike-waiting game. He should have known something was up when she’d agreed to the scenario he’d proposed -- not that she’d have any idea what it meant to him, the dark roots of their game, but she had clearly twigged to the fact that it was another way she could torment him, and she had thrown herself into _that_ game wholeheartedly.

He should never have opened his bloody gob.

Except he was also blissfully, ecstatically grateful. Which was itself bloody infuriating.

He’d installed the chains in their crypt almost as a test -- would the slayer consent to naughty bondage games? Or would she kick him in the head and run off, virtue fluttering? He’d expected the latter, if he were truthful with himself -- for all the slayer’s sexual precociousness, she was still shy and uncertain at the oddest times, and the most he’d expected was that she might clap him in the chains and then behave much the same as they had for the weeks prior. (Which, if he were fair, would still have been bloody fantastic.) He absolutely hadn’t expected her to dive headfirst into the role of dominatrix -- he should have, he supposed, but he hadn’t -- and even less had he expected his own response, the way he’d surrendered to her.

But yeah, he should have expected that, too. He’d always got off on subjugation to a strong woman -- and on the reverse, as well -- so he should have known he’d be putty in her deadly hands.

What he truly hadn’t expected, what had been entirely inconceivable, was what came after.

He hadn’t expected tenderness.

Drusilla had been a spoiled child in so many ways. She’d loved to tease, loved to torment him, loved to treat him as another one of her dollies -- and then when the game was over, when they were done playing, when she had taken her pleasure, she would abruptly move on to the next toy that caught her eye, leaving him behind, a broken plaything. He could hardly count the number of times she’d left him chained or bound while she went out hunting, for food or a new playmate. Sometimes she’d not returned for days -- or even weeks. He’d learned to always have an extra set of keys secreted somewhere nearby, to leave himself an escape, to take care for his own survival; learned as well that Drusilla did not always look kindly on escape, that she liked her playthings to be where she’d left them, and so when she left him dangling, he’d care for himself until he heard her return, then secure himself the way he’d been to greet her.

He was used to it by now.

But Buffy had… well, she had stayed with him, hadn’t she? Stayed and unbound him, and when he’d clung to her in relief and exhaustion and bliss, she’d petted him and stroked him and stayed with him, all sweet and open and giving, and then the next night, when she’d delved a little deeper, she’d treated him even sweeter, snuggling and stroking him until the trembling stopped, and the next night, and the next, and was that what it was to be good? To stay instead of leaving, to give succour where there had been suffering? To give--

\--No, that couldn’t be it, because Spike always stayed. He’d given everything to Drusilla, given all, anything she wanted, he’d been as true to her as she would allow, and he was the opposite of good.

Buffy… Buffy was good.

Buffy was…

...tucking the plastic pistol into her sash, and giving him a saucy look, and _thank god _it was time.

“So,” she said, suddenly shy again. “Um, do I just… start? Or--”

“Might find it easier if you step outside, take a breath, and then make your entrance,” he suggested. “Give me a moment to get into character as well. Right?”

“Right. That makes sense. Um, I’ll be right back.” She winked at him and exited the crypt, wiggling her pert arse on the way.

_God, I’ve created a monster._

Or was that _thank god, I’ve created a monster?_

But Spike took his own deep breath, closed his eyes, sank into himself, remembering, and when the door to the brig slammed open, William’s eyes flew open in a panic.

“You fiend!” he railed at his captor. “Why have you chained me here? What has happened to my ship? The crew?”

The Dread Pirate Buffy (_oh god, should have come up with a better name for her character, not exactly fear-inspiring there_) sauntered into the damp cell, ruthless eyes perusing him in a most unseemly fashion. “What do you think happened to them?”

He swallowed, trepidation filling his throat. “The ship… sunk?”

She tossed her hair. “With every man aboard.”

Williams closed his eyes briefly, forcing back the tide of anguish. “Even… even poor lame Brian, the cabin boy?”

Buffy rolled her eyes. “Oh my god, Spike. You are such a ham!”

Spike bared his teeth, annoyed. “It’s called _acting_, love. You should give it a try.”

“Oh, I’ll show you acting!” Buffy slammed back out of the crypt, and The Dread Pirate Buffy slammed back in.

“Yes,” the notorious freebooter scoffed, fingering the butt of her pistol. “Even Brian the cabin boy. _And _the ship’s cat!”

William’s eyes widened. “Not… not Fluffy!”

“Yes! Even Fluffy!” His vicious captor laughed evilly. “You should have heard her pathetic meows as she sank beneath the waves!”

“You monster!” He struggled against the heavy iron chains that bound him. “Why would you do such a thing?”

She shrugged. “I’m a pirate. Kind of what we do.”

He lifted his chin, daring her. “And why, pray tell, have you taken me prisoner?”

The Dread Pirate Buffy sauntered closer. “What’s your name?” she said in a soft, deadly voice, ignoring his question.

“W-William,” he stammered, unable to tear his eyes away from her.

“Well, William,” she said with a fierce grin. “When a pirate sees something she wants, she takes it.”

“And you wanted my… my wealth?”

She planted a boot in his chest, pressing him up against the wall. “Silly William,” she laughed. “I want you.”

“Me?” William swallowed nervously. “You want me to… to perform some service for you?” Her skirt had hiked up over her thighs and he nervously averted his eyes from the expanse of flesh she so shamelessly revealed.

She laughed again. “What need have I of the services of a--” She broke off, eyeing him dubiously. “Um, blacksmith? Peasant? Accountant?”

“Poet!” he gritted out through clenched teeth.

She rolled her eyes. “Seriously?” The Dread Pirate Buffy laughed again. “What need have I of the services of a poet? I have a much more diabolical plan in store for you. What I need is… a man.”

He looked up at her in shock. “Why, whatever do you mean?”

She stepped back, glaring down at him proudly. “I may be a pirate, but I am also a woman, and I have… I have needs.” She looked away, face mournful. “I haven’t been with a man in months.”

Despite himself, William’s heart melted at her plight. “Oh, milady….”

She tossed her hair, bravely holding back tears. “Not since I made my last lover walk the plank.”

His heart froze. “Walk the plank?”

She turned and glared at him. “He didn’t satisfy me,” she bit out fiercely. “I begin to feel that no man could.” She pulled her pistol from her sash -- cold steel, chased and inlaid with fine mother-of-pearl -- and set it under his chin, forcing his gaze up to meet hers. “But I like the look of you, William. Do you think _you_ have what it takes to... satisfy me?” Her green eyes were like cold jade, the eyes of a serpent.

He shuddered and tore his gaze away. “Please! I… I am but a simple poet, chaste and pure, awaiting the day when I can take a lady wife in the bonds of holy matrimony--”

She laughed fiercely. “Ah, but you are mine now, sweet William. I offer you a choice. You may remain pure and be flung into the depths of the deep blue sea, just like poor, doomed Fluffy, or... you can fuck me.”

He gasped in horror. “Such language!”

She took his linen shirt in her fists and yanked him up to his knees. “Choose!”

He gazed up at her, shaking with terror and arousal at the sight -- so terrible and beautiful, so cruel! “Dread Pirate Buffy, I… I choose you.”

She laughed at that, joyfully wicked, then flung him down. “I did not give you leave to speak my name,” she hissed at him, eyes blazing. “You must call me _mistress._”

“Yes, mistress,” William groaned.

“Now, on your knees!” she demanded, yanking him forward until his chest brushed her thighs, removing his spectacles and tossing them away, and then she took her ruffled skirt in her hands, hiking it all the way up to her waist, and sweet Jesus, she wore nothing at all beneath, her nethers bared to him, and he could do nothing but stare as she deliberately lifted her leg and planted her boot on the wall behind him.

He licked his lips, unable to tear his eyes away from the plump, swollen treasure before him. “Mistress?” he asked faintly, nearly overpowered by her scent. “What am I to do? What do you want?”

She paused for a moment before pressing her hips forward urgently. “I want you,” she said precisely, “to… to pleasure me with your mouth.”

He pressed a chaste kiss on her glistening quim. “Like this?” he whispered, his lips brushing her quivering flesh.

“Yes,” she moaned. “But use… use your tongue.”

“As you wish,” he murmured, and delicately extended his tongue to lap at her, hesitantly, and god, she tasted of the sea, salt and storm, and he began to tremble.

Her hand grasped his hair, yanking him closer. “More,” she ordered. “Like that but more-- oh, crap!” Buffy gaped at the curly brown wig that had come loose in her hands.

“Leave it, love,” Spike laughed as he ran his tongue the length of her cunt.

Buffy threw the wig aside and ruffled his blond hair, taking a good handful of his curls. “It was a lousy wig anyway. Your real hair is better.”

“Like my hair, do you?”

“No!” she scoffed, then her fingers tightened. “And is that how you speak to your mistress?”

William quivered in fear, even as he plied his tongue with greater fervor. “Nay!” he protested dizzily into her wet heat. “I… I live only to serve you, mistress!”

“That’s better.” She thrust her quim against his tongue. “Oh, god. Yes. Like that. Now… now suck--”

“Here?” He wrapped his lips around the swollen nub at the apex of her sex, sucking gently.

She grunted wordlessly, writhing against him, and god, she was so wet, hot and wet, he’d never dreamed of anything like this, and he sucked and licked and peppered her with tender kisses, until he’d almost forgot his own name.

“That’s it,” he crooned to her nethers. “That’s it. Come for me, love. God, _Buffy_\--”

Suddenly he felt himself yanked to his feet and slammed into the hard wall behind him; he stared down at the fierce, primal grin of The Dread Pirate Buffy, his mistress, his doom.

“What did you call me?” she said in a voice like the eye of a hurricane.

“Mistress!” he squeaked, terrified. “You’re my mistress!”

“You called me _Buffy_,” she said, voice dripping with satisfaction.

“I’m sorry!” he moaned as she slammed him against the wall again.

“It seems I need to teach you a lesson,” she purred, and then she spun him, his chained wrists crossing in front of him as she shoved his face against the smooth, damp wall of the brig. Her hands stroked the length of his back, then down to cup his arse as he quivered in fear -- and then she seized the waistband of his loose trousers and yanked them down to his knees.

“Mistress!” he gasped in shock, feeling the cold steel of her pistol as she trailed it slowly along his spine, from the nape of his neck all along his back, until he felt it tracing the seam of his bare buttocks.

“Mmm. Nice,” she murmured, and then her hand slid around to grasp his cock. “Very nice.”

Williams closed his eyes and pressed his forehead against his crossed wrists. “Please, mistress. It’s a sin to… to fornicate.”

She giggled, pressing her forehead into his shoulder blade, and then gave his cock a squeeze. “All men are sinners, William,” she said harshly, her cruel words belying the tenderness with which she was stroking him. “Perhaps... I should punish you for your… sins.”

His eyes rolled back in his head. “Mistress, no!”

Her hand stilled. “Or perhaps you would, um, like a dairy product instead?”

“Mistress?” He chanced a cautious look over his shoulder. “I… I cannot abide dairy products. They give me… quite terrible indigestion.”

“All right then,” she said, and then her hand tightened on his cock as the other curved around his buttock. “William?” she whispered into his spine.

“Yes, mistress?”

“You’re a poet. Tell me a poem.” She began to pump his cock, slowly, and then her other hand lifted and came down on his buttock, hard enough to sting, sending jolts of sensation out to his fingertips.

He grit his teeth, drowning in pleasure, and a poem swam into his mind -- not his own, thank god, his poems were rubbish, but one he’d read, one that described her, and him. He began to declaim it, his voice ragged.

“I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.

Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets.”

Her hand came down again, hard.

“Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day

I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps.”

Again.

“I hunger for your sleek laugh,

your hands the color of a savage harvest…”

Again. He was shaking now, like an earthquake.

“...hunger for the pale stones of your fingernails,

I want to eat your skin like a whole almond.”

His teeth clenched as she struck him harder; he could feel the flesh beginning to swell, his whole body focused on the sensation, and he spoke the final stanzas as if in a dream, her blows a staccato arpeggio of pain and bliss together.

“I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body,

the sovereign nose of your arrogant face,

I want to eat the fleeting shade of your lashes,

and I pace around hungry, sniffing the twilight,

hunting for you, for your hot heart,

like a puma in the barrens of Quitratue.”

He pressed his forehead into his wrists, panting, trembling, and then her hands were gentle on his arse, stroking and soothing the flesh she’d abused, and then she turned him around and pressed gently on his shoulders until he was kneeling before her again, a supplicant before the goddess, and she sank sweetly onto his lap, opening to him, and then he was inside her, inside her heat, and he was weeping into her shoulder as they strove together, until she cried out in ecstasy and William was lost in her, lost, lost, and he howled his release into her breast.

Spike shuddered as Buffy released him from his bonds, and then she tucked cushions behind him and curled with him into the nest, shaking with him.

“Where’s Quitratue?” she asked a while later, when they were both in the real world again.

“Somewhere in South America,” he shrugged. “Chile, I think.”

“Oh.” She stroked his chest thoughtfully for a bit. “So you wrote that when you were in South America? For, um….”

“Didn’t write it at all.” He laughed awkwardly, kissing her forehead. “What, you thought that came from the pen of William the Bloody? It’s Pablo Neruda. He was a bloody genius.”

“Oh. I thought… never mind.” She nuzzled into his chest. “So, um, did I do that… right?”

He didn’t laugh. “Yeah.”

“It was what you wanted?”

“Better.”

“Okay.” She curled in closer. “I was kinda worried.”

He stroked her hair. “Did you enjoy it?”

She was silent for a long time. “Yes,” she said at last. “I didn’t think I would, but I did.”

He looked at her, something ineffable swelling his chest. “Why’d you agree, then? If you didn’t think you’d--”

“It’s… it’s like part of the deal.”

“Wasn’t part of our truce.”

“No, not that deal. Um, the… the other deal. The deal you make when you… when you decide to have sex.” She looked up at him, serious. “Like, I asked for a bunch of things that I wanted to try, and you let me try them. And this was kind of the opposite of that, you asking for things that you wanted, and I agreed to try them, too. It’s kind of the same thing.”

“Huh.” Was that how it was supposed to work?

She looked down at her hand on his chest. “Um, there’s something else I have to ask you.”

“Ask away.”

“You’re not going to like it.”

“Try me.”

She sighed. “So, um, next Thursday is… well, it’s Thanksgiving. And Mom is going off to visit Aunt Darlene, and since it’s just me at home I talked Giles into letting me cook dinner at his house and inviting the gang.”

This was going in a less-kinky direction than Spike had expected. “And?”

“And… and he knows. About us. And he wants to, um, meet with you. For dinner.”

Spike couldn’t think of how he was supposed to answer that. How many years had it been since he was simply... invited to dinner? One hundred and nineteen, he realized with a sharp pang. Vampire dinner parties were… different… and humans didn’t simply invite vampires to dinner.

Watchers certainly didn’t. Rupert had to be up to something. But all right, this was part of the plan as well. Perhaps they could finally put this plan to rest, so he could kill the slayer and get on with his unlife. Set his world straight again.

“All right,” he said softly, holding Buffy tight in his arms, like an anchor.

A little bit later, she slapped his chest lightly. “Also, what the hell was with that _Dread Pirate Buffy, I choose you!_ spiel? What am I, a Pokemon?”

He chuckled. “Liked that, did you?”

“You asshole! You were trying to make me break character!”

“Was I?” he asked in his most innocent voice.

“And then with the _oh noes, it’s a sin to fornicate!_ And pretending you had no clue what to do with my hoo-ha!” She grabbed a pillow and whapped it into his face, and that was it, he convulsed with laughter, and then she was laughing with him, wrestling him around until the pillows were a jumbled mess and she was staring up at him, an arrested expression on her face.

“What’s wrong, love?” He leaned in and pressed a kiss to the hollow of her throat.

“How come we laugh so much?”

He blinked. “Why shouldn’t we?”

“Because you’re… you’re you, and I’m me, and we hate each other.”

“Doesn’t mean we can’t have fun.” And he lunged at her again, wrestling until she was laughing as hard as him, and they finally collapsed into each other, exhausted.

And Spike tried to pretend he wasn’t confused by it at all.

*

“Mom?”

Buffy stood in the foyer of her house, trying not to feel like a stranger. Except… she didn’t really feel like the Buffy who had lived here, who had snuck out windows and written angsty mopey entries about Angel in her diary and dreamed of being a normal girl someday. It was like she was taller, or like all the furniture had been moved, except that she knew for a fact her height hadn’t changed since she was sixteen, and everything was the same in the house down to the pictures on the shelves. It just… felt like she fit in it differently. Like everything had shrunk to exactly 99% of its usual size. It was super confusing.

“Buffy?” Her mom’s voice came from the kitchen. “I’m in here. Sorry, I’m up to my elbows in scrubbing bubbles.”

She dropped her bag by the stairs and headed down the hall, that feeling of disconnect following her all the way until she was looking at her mom. Or her mom’s bottom half, since she was leaning way into the oven, scrubbing vigorously at the back.

“Mom, aren’t you supposed to be getting on a plane in a few hours?”

Joyce extricated herself from the oven, sighing. “I’m all packed. I just figured since I had a little time I’d take care of that burnt-on cheese from your last pizza party before it fossilized.”

Buffy shook her head fondly. “You do know that we’re cooking Thanksgiving dinner at Giles’s, not here?”

“I know,” her mom said, smiling ruefully. “But I just knew that if I didn’t take care of it now, I’d spend the whole flight thinking about it. Possibly the whole week.” She hoisted herself to her feet and slid her rubber gloves off into the sink.

“So.” Buffy sat on one of the stools at the island. “You wanted me to come by?”

“Did you want some tea?”

“Sure, I guess.” Buffy laughed, feeling suddenly nervous. “Now I’m worried.”

“Why’s that?”

“You didn’t ask me to come over just to give me tea. Ergo, the tea is warming me up for what you really want to say.”

Joyce laughed. “Oh, you are grown up, aren’t you?” She didn’t say anything more as she put the kettle on.

Buffy shifted uncomfortably. “Um, classes are going good. I have a new teacher for Psychology.”

“In the middle of a semester? That’s unusual.”

“I guess Professor Walsh got called away for some research thing?” Buffy shrugged. “They didn’t really say what. Anyhow, I think I might have, um, mostly A’s.”

Joyce cast her a shrewd glance. “Just mostly?”

“Well, I got a B on my last history paper. The professor didn’t recognize half my sources and so he knocked me down. Which was totally unfair, because I used Giles’s library for that research. And if there’s anything I know how to do by now it’s finding information in a bunch of old books. Professor Goodman’s just jealous that he doesn’t have access to rare primary sources.”

The kettle whistled; Joyce busied herself filling up their mugs. “Actually, I just spoke to Mr. Giles this morning. Right before I called you.”

_Oh, crap. _“Really?”

“He said you have a new boyfriend.”

_Double crap. _“Well, uh, I do. Sort of. But I’m not sure it’s going to work out.”

Joyce turned to fetch the sugar bowl. “Because he’s a vampire?” she said in a perfectly normal tone of voice.

“Mom!”

“I’d say I’d like to meet him,” Joyce continued calmly, “but from Mr. Giles’s description it seems I already have.” She turned and folded her arms, giving Buffy her sternest mom-look. “Can I assume things didn’t work out with that girlfriend of his? And that you stopped hitting him?”

Buffy flushed, thinking back to the night before. “Um, yes?” _Except when he asks for it, but I am _so_ not splitting that particular hair right now._

“Are you getting the band back together?”

“What?”

“The band. You said you were in a band.”

“Mom, that was us trying to cover up that I was a vampire slayer and he was a vampire. I thought you knew that by now.”

“It could have been a vampire band.” Joyce’s eyes glinted and her lips quirked up, and Buffy realized she was teasing.

“Mom!” Buffy laughed, relieved.

“Well,” Joyce chuckled, “it’s not like I know that much about him, except that he was working with you, instead of against you. He seemed… polite.”

Buffy rolled her eyes. “Oh, yeah, he’s a real gentleman.”

“And a vampire.”

Buffy folded her own arms. “Mom, what did Giles tell you?”

“He was mostly concerned that I would invite him into the house.” Joyce’s eyebrows shot up. “He didn’t seem aware that Spike had already been in my house twice.”

“What did you say?”

“Well, it didn’t seem to be any of Mr. Giles’s business,” Joyce said firmly. “But I promised him that I would be careful. Should I be worried?”

“I don’t think so,” Buffy said slowly. “Um, even if things… don’t work out with us, I don’t think Spike would do anything to you. It’s not his style.” It wasn’t, she realized. He’d kill Buffy herself, yeah, they were mortal enemies -- or he’d try to, at least -- but he wouldn’t go after her family or friends just because.

“Hmm.” Joyce brought Buffy her tea. “I liked him.”

“What?”

“Spike. He seemed -- I don’t know, earnest.”

“Polite and earnest.” Buffy wanted to laugh, except she also didn’t want to; she took a drink of her tea instead, suddenly uncomfortable.

Joyce eyed Buffy over the rim of her own mug. “So, how long have you been together?”

“Not long, Mom. That’s why I didn’t tell you yet. I wanted… I wanted to be sure.” God, she was such a liar these days. But she couldn’t say the truth, could she? _Oh, Mom, we’re just pretending to be together so that we can get revenge on Angel. Except that we’re also having sex, every night. Lots of sex. Lots of really, really good sex. Oh, and did I mention that I kind of might sort of enjoy BDSM a little teensy bit? _Yeah, that’d go over well. Hopefully her mom wouldn’t look in her bag and see the new reading material Buffy had picked up at the adult bookstore….

Setting her tea aside, Joyce sighed. “I had just hoped with you going to college, you’d be settling for someone normal the next time around. Someone who can really make you happy.”

“Spike does make me happy,” Buffy insisted. “He’s… he’s really trying to be good. He helps me on patrol, and he hangs out with me and my friends, and… and he treats me really well, and he… he makes me laugh.” Buffy stared into her mug of tea in realization. That… that hadn’t been a lie. Every word had been true. “We laugh a lot.”

“Do you?” Joyce smiled gently. “Well, that’s the most important thing, isn’t it?”

Buffy drank her tea quickly, to keep from arguing, except… had she ever laughed with Angel? A real laugh, free and joyful and…. She couldn’t remember a single time.

Joyce glanced up at the clock. “I should get going. You know how traffic is, getting to LAX.”

“I could drive you,” Buffy said quickly, suddenly wanting just a little more mom-talk. Not to talk about the bondage stuff, because that would be weird -- especially knowing about teenager Giles and the handcuffs -- but just about… stuff. They hadn’t talked much lately.

Joyce rolled her eyes. “Oh, did you also forget to tell me you’d gotten your driver’s license?”

“Well, no, but… um, I think my permit is still good?”

“I think I’ll pass. If you want some time behind the wheel, we can schedule that for when I come back.”

Buffy flushed again, more Depeche Mode lyrics floating through her head. _Spike likes me being behind the wheel…. _Another thing best left unsaid.

Especially since it might all be over by the time her mom got back. Now that Giles knew, it was only a matter of time before Angel did, too.

She stood abruptly and rushed over for a hug. “Drive safe, Mom.” Why did she feel like crying all of a sudden? Her mom was only going to be gone for a week. She'd gone longer between visits now that she lived at the dorm.

“I will, sweetie.” Joyce drew back and stroked Buffy’s hair back from her face, like she had when she was a little girl. “And bring Spike over for hot chocolate some time. If you’re going to date him, I’d like to get to know him better.” She grinned. “Tell him I’ll be sure to stock up on mini-marshmallows.”

“Yeah,” Buffy said quietly. “He… he’ll like that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to JustWriter for their shoutbox post on EF lamenting the lack of pirates in the Big Bad Challenge Fics. Only too happy to oblige!
> 
> Also, I took a few sneaky liberties with the Pangs timeline/events. Hopefully they’re not too jarring!


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER NOTE: While I consider myself blessed by the kindness of all my beta-readers (EllieRose101, SzmattyCat, and Sigyn, for those of you who missed it) and they all gave me all sorts of awesome comments and suggestions this time around, I must give special thanks to Sigyn for tons of honest input for the final scene of the chapter. It is infinitely better than it was before she cracked the whip (SO TO SPEAK) and I am so very grateful. (Disclaimer: There are no whips in the chapter, only in the betaing. Sorry!)
> 
> CONTENT WARNING: This chapter contains some explicit period-sex. If this is not your cup of tea, I will not be offended if you skip ahead to the next scene once her clothes start coming off. There is a lot of lead-in so you have plenty of time to decide. I have also updated the fic warnings to reflect recent content.

Buffy was probably insane.

She'd been disappointed when she woke up the day after her mom had left to stained panties and cramps from hell and okay, so it was right on time, she was due, but it had sent her into a bit of a panic, because… well, another first: she'd never actually had to worry about her period and sex colliding before, because there hadn't really been any sex to do the colliding, and she really didn't know what to do. But she'd gone ahead with their plans anyhow -- a night out with her friends, who were falling over themselves to show how accepting they were now that they'd finally done what she'd been trying to get them to do for weeks, followed by patrol of the night's roster of cemeteries -- everything just like the routine they'd established.

But Spike had known -- of course he'd known; he could probably smell it, couldn't he? He'd flat out told her he'd smelled it the first night they'd fought, and that made Buffy think about how Angel had probably been able to smell it every month they'd been together, and that made her feel kind of ooky -- and sitting next to Spike at the Bronze knowing he could smell her had made her hypersensitive to every time he breathed in, every time his nostrils flared, and then when it had been just the two of him walking through the night she could tell he was all wired up, that he was on edge, and so when they’d gotten to the crypt, she’d just kind of flung him up against the wall and gone straight for his belt buckle, diving down for a blow job, because that was way easier than thinking about everything else they usually did, all the things that were now all covered in blood, and he’d just laughed shortly and run his fingers through her hair.

“What’s the rush, love?” he’d asked, voice ragged as her thoughts. “We have all night.”

And she’d stopped and pressed her forehead against his thigh, because of course he wasn’t going to let it go.

“This is weird,” she muttered into his skin.

“New for me, too,” he sighed, relaxing back against the wall and pulling a cigarette out of his duster pocket, and that was extra weird, how he knew exactly what she was talking about without her being splainy.

She’d glared up at him around his erection. “You’re not the one who’s all… oozing.”

He grinned down, unrepentant. “Happy to assist with that, love.”

That had brought her to her feet. “We can’t,” she grumbled.

“Can’t we?” He regarded her levelly, lighting up.

Buffy sighed, not wanting to go into all the hours of thought that had led her to this point -- she hadn’t got a damn thing done all day, thinking -- and just pulled his promise crystal out of her pocket and held it up. “Say it.”

His chin went out. “I swear to thee I have kept my promise.”

She didn’t even look at the crystal -- she knew what the answer would be -- and just looked into his eyes. “So what color would this crystal be if I let you… assist?”

He glared back. “Do we even need the crystals now, love?”

She bit her lip. “I think we do. I… it’s important. It’s important that I not be with someone who’s out there killing or terrorizing.” She looked at the crystal then. “Especially now. I… I want to be able to show Giles and the others that you’ve changed. This is the proof.”

“I haven’t bloody changed,” he growled. “I’m still bloody well evil.”

She clenched her fist around the crystal, gut twisting. “I know that! I mean… for the plan. We need to be able to… to pretend.”

He shrugged resentfully. “Seems a bit much to me.”

Buffy looked at him searchingly. “So, do you want out?”

His chin went up, challenging. “No, I don’t bloody well want out.”

“So we can’t. You can’t… you can’t drink human blood. And I think this would definitely count, even though it wouldn't be… kill-y.”

He looked at her for a long moment, free hand stuffed in his pocket, cigarette held down by his side, jeans still undone, and she felt like he was seeing right through her, seeing down to the root of everything, seeing through to what she really felt, and she looked away. He had to have noticed what she wasn't talking about, how she'd jumped straight to talking about oral sex when that wasn't even a third of what they usually did, but he wasn't calling her on it, and she didn't get why. She almost felt like her ears were ringing, a tinny electric hum filling the air.

“I’m scared,” she said at last. “I don’t know… I don’t know how it would be, and I don’t think I’m ready. I don’t even know if it would be, I don’t know, healthy to have sex when I'm on my period. I’ve never thought about it before, and if I knew, I’ve forgotten.” She shrugged and gave him a weak smile. “So I guess I’m saying _cheese_.”

He grinned suddenly and his hand moved like lightning and a light flashed in her face.

She blinked frantically, half blinded. “What the hell, Spike!”

He had started laughing. “Been waiting for the right moment to do that.”

Her vision had cleared enough for her to see the disposable camera in his hand, and she planted her hands on her hips. “I repeat, what the hell?”

He laughed harder, doubling over. “You said cheese, love!”

“Are you saying I was being all serious here, and you were just waiting to take my picture?”

He sank back against the wall again, laughter subsiding. “Was with you on the serious part, love. But I’d thought you might be a tad squeamish when it came down to it.” He shrugged. “Had already sussed we weren't going to shag tonight. Figured you’d scarper after the club, say you had a paper or some such rot.”

She laughed, weirdly relieved. “I do have a paper. I didn’t get anything done today because I was all worried.” She grabbed the camera out of his hand. “How long have you had this?”

He grinned. “Nicked it the day after you insisted a bloody dairy product would keep us _safe_.”

"You are such an asshole!" Buffy examined the little plastic camera, pressing down on the flash-charging button. There was that electric whine. So it hadn't been all in her brain. "Um, so you aren't mad?"

He shrugged again, but this one was a little stiff. "A bit disappointed," he admitted, pouting. "You smell bloody divine. Driving me mental." He gave her a swift, vicious grin. "But if I were that hard up, I'd just bloody kill you, drink my fill."

She rolled her eyes. "Yeah, you could try." She tossed the camera and caught it, feeling a little more in control. "I have to say, you're being awfully patient and mature about this."

"Patience isn't a quality I'm best known for," he drawled, stretching. "But I know how to wait, when the payoff is worth it. Should have seen how bloody long I sat in that bloody wheelchair waiting for the right time to cosh Angel over his bloody head." He regarded her through his eyelashes. "Your blood is going to be the sweetest payoff of my unlife. I can wait."

And there, another weird thing. Because even though he was talking about killing her, he _had_ to be talking about killing her, it felt like… like he was talking just about them, like maybe next month she'd let him taste her, or the next month, or…. "It just seems weird to me."

"No weirder than you licking chocolate syrup off me."

She flushed. "I never licked chocolate syrup off you!"

"But you could." He did that… that thing with his tongue. Asshole.

Buffy narrowed her eyes. "You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

He just grinned, and for some reason that got her back on solid ground again. Back on her feet and ready to give as good as she got.

"Okay. So, where did you say you bought this thing?" She brandished the camera in front of his nose.

"I didn't buy it." He glared at her in patent offense.

"Yeah. You're going to fix that tomorrow. Go to that store, give them some of that money you got from that grave you robbed. That's part one. I expect a receipt, buster. You can pretend to buy another camera and then drop it when you're leaving."

He growled. "I steal things. I don't pay for them."

"I know. But I pay for things, and this camera is mine now."

"I see someone's got her rocks back," he grumbled.

"I never lost them. Unless by rocks you mean these." She cupped her hand under his balls. "No wait, these are mine, too."

He groaned, eyes closing. "Right. Camera's yours. Bought and paid for."

"Now, part the second." She slid her hand around his cock -- still hard, despite their conversation. "I had plans for _this_ that you rudely interrupted by making me talk about things to set up your stupid photo op. So as punishment, I want you to use _this--_" She shoved the camera into his chest. "--and get me some pictures for my future blackmail purposes."

He grinned through clenched teeth as she continued to stroke him. "Drugstore won't develop pictures of pornography. You'll get arrested, love."

"I didn't say I wanted pictures of this." She squeezed again, kinda tight; he groaned. "I want pictures of your face. I want to see what you look like when I am sucking on your cock." She went on tiptoes to whisper in his ear. "Be sure you get one right when you come."

And so she'd fallen to her knees and taken him in her mouth, now and again hearing the whir of the flash charging, followed by an explosion of light and then the scritchy scratch as he advanced the film, and when he'd finally exploded in her mouth, he pulled her up and kissed her soundly, and they'd ended up snuggling down in their cozy nest of cushions with the heater on high and just talking while he gently rubbed her crampy belly, and when the night had been almost over he'd pointed out there was a picture or two left on the camera and so he'd snapped a shot of them both lying there in the pillows, and then another as he kissed her, and then he'd solemnly turned the little wheel, scritchy-scratching until the film was all wound, and tucked the camera in his pocket.

"Pay for the developing, too," Buffy had ordered as he kissed her goodbye at the dorm. "No fang-flashy discounts!"

He'd rolled his eyes and sauntered off, and Buffy had watched him go, biting her lip.

She was insane. Certifiably.

But Giles would be proud of her, sort of. She'd decided to solve her dilemma with research. He'd be possibly-dubious about what she was researching and definitely appalled at why, but he would approve of research on general principle. Who would have thought he and Cordelia would have so much in common?

But anyhow, tonight had gone much the same as the night before -- though pizza and pinball instead of the Bronze because Dingoes were playing with their new guitarist and Willow had gone back to being weepy after a brief flirtation with Thanksgiving-related political correctness -- and now Spike and Buffy were heading back to their crypt, as if it were still totally natural, and Buffy was actually kind of shaking, but it wasn't fear, not anymore. It was just… Spike was just intense.

She couldn't help but respond to that intensity. Even if Spike was once again exuding smug I’ve-got-a-surpriseness when he opened the door for her. He really was not as sneaky as he thought he was.

Still, she _was_ kind of surprised when she stepped into the crypt. It smelled… soothing, lavender and chamomile and was that mint? And along with the candles and the heater, there was a little camp stove with a kettle on it. Their pillows and blankets had been all plumped up and gathered in the center of the floor, and there were bags and boxes and bottles set up next to them and as she turned to Spike he held up a forestalling hand.

“Didn’t steal a bloody thing,” he growled, looking pissed off.

“That actually wasn’t what I was going to say,” she said quickly, though if she were honest it probably would have been her third or fourth question. “What is this?”

He shrugged, but he was back to looking smug again. “Just get comfortable, love.”

So she went and snuggled up in the little nest and watched, bemused, as he knelt by her feet and lit the camp stove and filled the kettle with water from a gallon jug. “Seriously, Spike, what is this?”

“Here, drink this.” He held out his flask.

She took a sip and started coughing. “Bleaugh! What is that?”

“Whiskey, love. Just a drop should do you.”

“It nearly did me in,” she groused.

“It’ll do you good,” he said briskly, fiddling with the stove flame, and then rummaged in one of the bags. “Chocolate?”

“Spike, answer my question.”

He broke a piece off the bar and held it out to her. “It’s eighty percent cacao, should do the trick.”

She took the chocolate, blinking. “What trick?”

“Banana?” He proffered it with a perfectly bland expression.

“Spike--”

“Got some supplements as well, pet. Vitamin E, iron….”

Buffy struggled out of the soft pillows. “Spike!”

“Half a mo, I’ll have a nice cuppa for you. Hot water bottle’ll take a tick longer, but--”

Buffy grabbed both lapels of Spike’s duster and yanked him over to face her. “Spike, what the hell is all of this?”

“Just trying to ease things for you,” he said, as if stating the obvious. “You’re all crampy and bloated and all.”

Buffy looked down at herself. “I look bloated?”

Spike looked down at her body as well, leering. “Well, no, not as such.”

“Wait. So this is all… because I’m on my period?”

“Well, yeah.”

She glared at him again, giving him a little shake. “So how the hell do you know what’s good for periods?”

“Can read, can’t I?”

“You’re telling me you went to the library and read a book about how to make period symptoms better?”

“No!” he scoffed.

“Oh, you read Cosmo?”

“Of course bloody not!” The kettle started whistling, and he poured some into a waiting mug with a tea bag, and then started to fill what looked suspiciously like a hot water bottle. “Went on the internet, didn’t I?” he muttered at last.

“You went on the internet to figure out what was good for periods.”

“Just said so, didn’t I?” He turned and gently shoved her back down into the cushions. “Now get settled.”

“You can use a computer?”

“Are you deaf, Slayer? I literally just said I did.”

And Buffy was so surprised that she lay back and let him tuck the hot water bottle right up against her tummy. It felt lovely.

“Bananas are good for period cramps?” she asked after a while.

“Rich in potassium, love. Got to rebuild your reserves.”

“Right.” Buffy lay back and nibbled at the chocolate and watched Spike as he sugared her tea, setting the mug off to one side of her while he settled on the other side.

“Roll over, love,” he murmured, kissing her shoulder, and when she rolled to her side, he started massaging her lower back.

“This is the weirdest dream I’ve ever had,” Buffy said after a bit, feeling kind of drowsy.

He sniffed in offense. “What? I’ve cared for you before.”

“Not like this,” she said softly, though she couldn’t really explain it, even to herself. It felt like… well it felt like something he’d only ever have done for her. All the other nice things were things that he’d probably done for… for Drusilla. Maybe hundreds of times, even. But Drusilla would never have had menstrual cramps, would never have needed chocolate with a high cacao content, or bananas, or vitamin E. This was a Buffy-only bonus.

Maybe she wasn’t _completely _insane after all.

So she ate the chocolate and the banana and she drank the tea and she sat up to swallow the vitamins and she let Spike warm her and massage her and pamper her, and after a while she did really feel better, curled up with Spike all spooned up behind her.

“You missed one,” she said at last.

“I don’t think so,” he growled in her ear. “Did every last bloody thing the websites recommended.”

“_Websites_, plural, hmm?” Buffy giggled.

He kissed her throat, a growl still rumbling through his chest.

“I did some research of my own today,” she went on, sighing. “And you definitely missed one thing that’s supposed to be good for cramps.”

“Well, we did exercise earlier,” he said, eyebrows furrowing in thought.

She rolled to face him completely. “I was thinking orgasms.”

He glared at her. “Yeah, but you took those off the table. I didn’t miss them, just crossed them off the sodding list.”

“Well, put me back on the table.” She flushed, glancing away. “Um, the list. Back on the list.”

His face went completely blank. “What?”

“I changed my mind. I want to have sex.” She pressed her forehead against his. “And I want you to… to taste me.”

He glared at her, nostrils flaring. “What about the sodding crystal?”

“I brought another one.” She smiled and poked him in the chest. “I’m surprised you didn’t suggest that in the first place, seeing as I was the first one to break a promise, way back when.”

He shrugged deliberately. “Didn’t want to push.”

“You’re a terrible liar. You didn’t even think of it, did you?”

“Well, how’s a fellow supposed to think when he’s got bloody caviar being wafted about under his bloody nose?” he grumbled sullenly, and then suddenly his arms were around her and he was holding her tight, face buried in her shoulder. “God, I want you,” he whispered.

“I know,” she whispered back. "I want you, too."

And then his lips were on hers, frantic and sloppy and carnal, and his hands were kneading her belly as she rolled him over her, his fervor like strong wine, going straight to her head.

"Gonna eat you up," he growled, blunt teeth running down the tendon of her throat.

"Oh, there's an original line," she laughed.

"Fuck originality," Spike snarled into her breast. "Not going for a Pulitzer prize here."

Buffy slapped his behind lightly. "I thought you were going to fuck _me_."

Spike lifted his head to glare at her, eyes hot. "Are you seriously under the impression that I need to be driven _more_ insane right now?"

She grinned at him recklessly. "Why are you still talking? Don't you have better things to do with your mouth?"

He didn't actually shut up -- she hadn't been expecting him to -- just switched to crooning endearments and vulgarities into her skin as he efficiently stripped off her clothes down to her panties, vibrating like a tuning fork the whole time, and Buffy was vibrating, too, in tune and in sync, shoving off his duster and yanking off his shirt and pushing down his jeans with hands and feet until he kicked them the rest of the way off and then at the end he knelt before her and reverently peeled down her panties, setting them and the half-soaked maxipad aside, hands pressing her thighs wide as he just looked at her, panting, eyes wide with lust and worship and something else she couldn't identify, something soft.

"It's going to get messy," she said, feeling suddenly vulnerable.

"Blankets'll wash," he replied absently, then reached out and stroked her, feather-light, thumb catching on her clit.

She gasped.

"So sensitive," he murmured.

"Yeah," she agreed, biting her lip. She'd done a bit of a test run in the shower, when she was deciding, and every tiny touch had felt… more. She could see his trembling, and she was shaking, too, panting, desperate, and she sank into the cushions and opened to him, feeling a siren's smile spreading on her face.

"Don't hold back," she said, voice rough. "Devour me."

His eyes rolled back and he fell forward, arms curling possessively around her thighs, and then his tongue was on her, gentle, so gentle, and she heard a low, guttural cry come from her own throat and she clutched at his hair and his shoulders and his hands on her thighs until she found his fingers and they were tangled together, holding on for dear life as he licked and sucked. She was twitchier, touchier, still a little self-conscious, but he teased her and edged her up and up until she finally came, tears leaking from the corners of her eyes at the intensity, and then he was up on his knees and then over her, mouth bloody, eyes wild, and then he slid inside her, maddeningly slow, his eyes drifting closed for a moment, tongue coming out to lick his lips, and then he sank back, pulling her with him so she was draped all along his lap as he pumped and pumped, staring down at her, a look of intense concentration on his face. Buffy lay back and gazed up at him, feeling pliant and relaxed, which was not how she had expected to feel, but the ache in her belly was focused on him now, she arched her back and took him in deeper and he slid one hand over to thumb at her clit, gentle but relentless, until she came again, and then she smiled as he jolted, spilling inside her, and then he was looking down at her like he had never seen her before in his life.

She held out her arms to him and he slipped free and curled up on her chest, still shaking, one hand lazily stroking her belly.

“Better get you cleaned up,” he said at last, and he stood and fetched a towel, dampening it from the now-just-warm hot water bottle, stroking her thighs and belly, finding spots elsewhere, and she sat up to clean off his face, and he scrubbed the rest of his body, and then they both stood and he dragged off the stained blanket and replaced it with a fresh one as she dug a fresh pad out of her purse and put her underwear and her shirt back on and he tugged on his jeans and they curled up again in the nest of pillows, Spike tucking Buffy’s head in under his chin as he kissed her here and there on top of her head, lips sloppy as if he was drunk. Like he thought they were done for the night.

Buffy sighed as if she was resigned, anticipation coiling in her stomach. “Better get this over with,” she said, and pulled out his promise crystal.

He squeezed her tightly as he said, “I swear to thee I have kept my promise.”

The crystal turned black.

“Oh, no,” Buffy said softly. “Looks like you broke your promise.”

“Looks like I did,” he sighed happily.

Buffy grinned and flipped him over, grabbing his wrists and slamming them into the floor by his head. “You know what happens to vampires who break their promises?”

Spike’s eyes widened with almost comical surprise, then narrowed into a death glare. “Not bloody fair, Slayer,” he growled. “This was your bloody idea!”

“It _was _my idea.” She leaned down over him. “This is my idea, too.”

“Bitch! You promised--”

“Oh, come off it, Spike,” Buffy brushed a light kiss across his lips. “You think I haven’t figured out what makes you tick by now? We’re going to do exactly what I promised. The new crystal’s in my purse, we’ll get to that in a bit. I just thought maybe before that you deserved a little… punishment.”

He relaxed beneath her, ever so slightly, but his glare got even hotter as he realized where she was headed. “Punishment, is it?”

She nodded, feeling weirdly happy. “Yeah, I think you earned a little torture. I was thinking I’d chain you up, see how long you last before you break.” She kissed him again, hard. “I did mention I’d been doing my research, didn’t I?” She’d looked into all sorts of things, actually, and come up with a few scenarios that she was pretty sure were going to make Spike’s eyes roll back in his head. From the half-crazed look in his eyes, he was pretty sure of the same thing.

He grinned ferally. “Do your worst.”

“Oh, you know I’m going to.” She stood, keeping hold of his arms, tugging him roughly to his feet and over to the chains. She snapped the manacles around each wrist and stepped back to admire him. He was still bare to his waist, jeans zipped but not buttoned; he was flexing and straining gratifyingly at the restraints, glaring at her.

“What’s your bloody game, Slayer?” he growled, rattling his chains.

She folded her arms, trying to look commanding even though she was wearing a shirt and panties. “You made me a solemn vow not to drink any human blood. You know how important that is to me.”

He grinned. “And I’d do it again, and again. Sweetest blood I ever tasted.”

She flushed. “That’s… that’s neither here nor there. You’ve been a bad, bad boy.”

“What can I say, baby? I’ve always been bad,” he purred.

Buffy lifted her chin. “As the slayer, it’s my sacred duty to punish evil.”

“So what’s it going to be? You going to spank me? Flog me? Bastinado? Drips of water on the forehead for hours on end? I can take it. You won’t break me.”

“I’m not trying to break you,” she said sweetly, stroking her fingers across his chest. “I’m trying to train you.”

“I can’t be bloody well tamed.”

“I didn’t say anything about taming.” She walked around him, trailing her fingers across his belly and side as she slid between him and the wall. “I… I like you wild. No, I want to train you to be… to be good. Wild, but good.”

He scoffed. “I’m sure that will go brilliantly.”

“Oh, it will.” She finished her walk around, standing just inches away from him. “You liked what we did tonight, didn’t you?”

He was panting. “Yeah.”

“You liked fucking me, liked coming inside me.” She was kind of impressed with herself, how the raunchy talk just rolled off her tongue now.

“Fuck yeah.”

“See, this is where the punishment comes in,” she laughed. “Because now, I’m going to do whatever I want to you, and there’s just one rule.”

“What’s that, love?”

“You’re not allowed to come until I say… until I _command_ it.”

He was silent for a moment before laughing faintly. “Oh. You are diabolical.”

“I’m a warrior for good,” she said virtuously. “I believe the word is _benevolent_. I am going to bestow upon you my attention, and you are going to prove yourself worthy before I allow you ecstasy.”

“What happens if I fail?” He sounded genuinely curious, like they were discussing the probability of rain.

“I stop for a while. Maybe go have some of those chocolates, some tea. Then if I feel like it, I’ll let you try again. But--” She gave him a stern look. “--I will be very, very disappointed in you. I may have to come up with some new punishment if it happens more than once.” She caught a finger in one of his belt loops, giving him a good yank. “Don’t disappoint me.”

He looked at her, eyes intense, mouth working. “No, Mistress,” he said at last, voice suddenly humble. “I won’t disappoint you again.”

Something twinged at that, but it was heady, the feeling inside her, powerful and sensual and somehow tender, and she tilted her head up and brushed her lips across his.

“You know what to say if you want out,” she whispered.

“I know. But I won’t,” he whispered back, and there, the negotiations were done, and he was hers to toy with.

She started with slow, light teasing brushes of her fingertips, aimless patterns across his bare torso. He quivered at her touch as she caressed his taut biceps, traced the line of his collarbone, traversed the ripples of his trembling stomach, and then she added her lips and tongue to the equation, licking his belly and sucking on his hard, flat nipples and going up on tiptoes to nibble on his ears. He moaned and groaned with gratifying gusto, sometimes saying _oh, mistress_ in a worshipful tone of voice that made her shiver.

She knelt before him to take his jeans off, stroking her fingers down his hipbones and thighs, avoiding his cock completely as she stripped him, and then she stood again, resuming her feather-light touches, caressing his ass and his thighs, stroking lower and lower on his belly until her fingers were combing through his rough pubic hair, still not touching his hard shaft.

"Please, mistress," he begged. "Please touch me."

"I will… when I feel like it."

She teased and teased, dragging it out as long as she could, and then, when he seemed about to burst, she fell to her knees without warning, took his cock deep in her mouth, and sucked.

"Bloody buggering fuck!" he shouted, hips spasming as he came in her mouth. "Oh, bugger."

Buffy slowly stood, looked at him sadly as she wiped her mouth on her arm, and walked away, ignoring his muttered curses.

The books hadn't said anything about how hard that would be for her, to walk away, but she had started this game and she was going to finish it, so she knelt by the camp stove and filled the kettle, setting it over the heat. She helped herself to a bit more chocolate while she was waiting.

"I'm sorry, mistress," he said from behind her.

When the kettle reached a boil, she calmly poured the water into her mug, watching the color of the tea seep through the water.

"It won't happen again," he vowed fervently.

When the tea was done steeping, she quietly added sugar and sipped at it, carefully because of the heat.

"Please, mistress."

Okay, that was enough; she set down her mug of tea and stood and looked at him.

"You don't have to beg like that," she said tartly. "It's a little weird."

"Oh, I thought that's what you were going for." He grinned suddenly.

"I thought it was, too." She walked back over, hands on her hips. "But I don't think I like it after all. It feels… not you."

He rattled his chains. "You think I'm not your willing slave?"

"Not really into slavery." She shrugged. "And I don't think I like you… abject." She set her hands on his cheeks. "I kind of like it when you're an asshole. When we're… equals."

He unleashed his lethal pout. "We done playing, then?"

"Oh, hell no!" Buffy grinned. "Project Torment Spike is still way on. I just want to be dealing with actual Spike, not some Stepford Spike. I expect insults, incomprehensible British swear words, maybe some sexy poetry quotes because that one the other day was really hot." She bit her lip. "And I like the way you say _Buffy_. I want to be actual me, too."

What was that look in his eyes? Soft and hot and hard and hungry and she kissed him hard, because she had to, and he kissed her back, and there, that was right, that was Spike, and the game was _on_.

“So you gonna give me a real challenge here, Spikey?”

“Bring it on, bitch.”

Buffy didn’t spend near as much time on the slow burn this time -- she didn’t need to, he was already quivering with anticipation, and so she started right in with nibbles and licks, her tongue and teeth traveling along his hard parts, collarbone and ribcage and wrist bones, along his softer parts, belly and biceps and the palms of his hands, everyplace but where he most wanted her mouth, and oh yeah, he was swearing now, swearing up a storm, twisting away from and into her lips, her name a litany of hosannas and damnation from his tongue. She licked along the curves of his ass, sucked on each fingertip in turn, tenderly kissed his hipbones, and then looked up at him, laughter bubbling up inside.

“Do you want it?” she asked softly.

He looked at her sharply, face arrested, before nodding slowly. “Yes,” he said, voice suddenly calm and certain. “God, yes.”

“Remember,” she laughed. “Not until I command you.”

“Yes,” he moaned as her lips brushed the tip of his cock. “Yes, Buffy.”

This, she did take slow again -- glacially slow, tenderly licking his length, sucking the head of his cock between her lips, pumping him slowly, then fast, then slowly again. She knew him by now, knew his tells, and she prolonged it as much as she could, bringing him right up to the edge before backing off, again and again until her jaw was sore and he was shuddering, his speech sloppy and drunken -- not that he was trying to say words anymore, not even naughty words -- and she drove him up and up again one last time, and when his spine stiffened with resistance, his hands clenched in fists, jaw tense, eyes screwed shut with effort, she took pity on them both.

“Now, Spike,” she whispered, lips brushing the tip of his swollen cock. “_Now._”

She sucked him deep again, except this time she was done with the teasing, she wanted it all, and she pumped him in and out of her mouth, no mercy, and that was it for him, he came in her mouth, his whole body convulsing with the force of it, and he laughed as he came, a sharp bark of laughter that almost became a scream before it faded into drunken giggles, until he finally collapsed to his knees before her. She wrapped her arms around his trembling shoulders and held him until the giggles subsided before unlocking him and helping him crawl across the floor to their cozy blanket-nest.

“Fuck, that was glorious,” he said after a long while, cradling Buffy’s head to his chest.

“Well, I am the one girl in all the world.” She slanted a grin up at him. “Destined to be the best you’ve ever had.”

For once, he didn’t argue.

*

Giles couldn’t really say this was the worst week of his life, but it certainly hadn’t been the best by any stretch of the imagination.

First of all, plans for Buffy’s holiday invasion of his flat were apparently proceeding apace. While she’d not stopped by since he’d secured her promise to bring her (he shuddered) _boyfriend _to dinner for the traditional interrogation, she had called a few times to make sure he’d put the turkey in the refrigerator to thaw, stocked up on whiskey and aluminum foil, and put his crossbow “way away, like not even in the apartment.”

In the meantime, Willow had been making some rather alarming inquiries into spells related to broken hearts. While he’d done his best to dissuade her, she had turned out to be quite stubborn, which filled him with concern. One would think that having his youthful magickal indiscretions come floating up to nearly destroy them all would serve as an object lesson in not pursuing one’s own youthful magickal indiscretions, but apparently not.

And now, his doorbell had rung, and he’d opened it to find on the other side the worst possible guest.

“Angel.”

The berk had at least enough grace to look embarrassed, if not enough to not bloody come to call in the first place. “Buffy’s in danger,” he said shortly, and started to walk past Giles to enter the flat.

Giles smiled faintly as his unwelcome visitor bounced off the invisible barrier. “Is it Tuesday, then?”

Angel’s face was a gratifying mix of confusion and betrayal. “You disinvited me?”

Giles raised his eyebrows. “And you’re surprised?”

“Giles, we’ve been working together--”

“I deemed it wiser not to leave that invitation in place once you’d left town.” Giles studied his fingernails. “I think you’ll understand that I am… rather averse to coming home to nasty surprises, and there’s no guarantee your soul won’t slip away again. Unrestricted access to my flat is neither a right nor a privilege you currently enjoy.”

Angel folded his arms. “Buffy’s in danger,” he repeated.

“And I’d be happy to hear what you have to say about it. Just let me fetch my tea.”

He also fetched his crossbow, which of course he had not put “way away.” He wasn’t a fool.

Once he was comfortably settled in his chair in front of the door, crossbow across his knee and tea by his side, he turned his attention again to Angel, who was pacing outside the doorway. “So. You have some information about a threat to Buffy?”

“Yes. I have a colleague, Doyle, and he had a vision of Buffy--”

Giles interrupted. “And how reliable are this Doyle’s visions, typically?”

Angel stopped in his tracks. “Very reliable,” he growled. “They’re sent from the Powers That Be.”

“The same Powers That Be that sent you to assist Buffy in the first place, but didn’t predict you would lose your soul? You’ll pardon me if I am not impressed with their foresight.”

“Doyle’s visions are reliable,” Angel said curtly. “I’ve saved a lot of people with the information he gives me.”

“Ah. Well, if _you_ say he’s reliable… do continue.” Giles took a sip of his tea.

“Like I was saying, Doyle had a vision of Buffy in danger.”

“She’s always in danger,” Giles replied bluntly. “Any particulars of this specific threat?”

Angle blinked. “Well, he said she was fighting a vampire.”

“Yes, well, that narrows it down considerably.” Giles looked up at the ceiling, thinking. “Did he mention any details of the vampire she was fighting?”

“Uh, sort of….”

“Clothing?”

“One of those… letterman’s jackets? Is that what they’re called?” Angel started pacing again, clearly agitated.

“Ah. And his hair color?”

“Brown.” Angel slammed a hand up against the barrier in frustration. “Why is this important?”

“Oh, it’s likely not important at all.” Giles took another sip of tea. Interesting that it didn’t seem to be Spike, though that didn’t necessarily mean much. The jury was still out on whether Spike was a danger to Buffy. If he was….

_...then you’re going to call Angel so he can come down here and put a stop to this?_

Giles stood abruptly. “Well, I very much appreciate your bringing this to my attention. I’ll be sure to pass on the warning to Buffy, so that she can be prepared for any eventuality. Do have a safe trip back to Los Angeles.”

Angel folded his arms. “I was going to stay to keep an eye on her.”

“Did you plan on speaking to her?”

“No. It would be… it would be too hard.”

_For her or for you?_ “Watching from the shadows? You can see her, but she can’t see you? I hardly think that’s fair.”

“Giles, I swore to protect her.”

_Angel and Spike don’t get along. They hate each other. If Angel knew we were, um, together, he’d-- well, he’d probably come down here to break us up._

_With a stake?_

_Probably. _

Giles shrugged elaborately. “Ah. Well, I fear when you chose to leave town permanently, you did rather forfeit that responsibility, and that right.” He raised his crossbow. “Perhaps next time, you could simply call?”

“You haven’t been answering,” Angel growled.

“As is my right,” Giles said firmly. “The ringing of the telephone is an invitation, not a command. You are always welcome to leave me a message, and if I deem it worth my while, I assure you I shall return your call.” He tilted his head assessingly. “Do express my thanks to your associate Doyle for the information. I will ensure that it was not a waste of his time and energy.”

“I’m just going to go find--”

“You are _not _going to go find Buffy!” Giles barked. “You are going to leave her alone to find what happiness she can. She does not, in fact, need your protection. Her path is no longer yours, and I should not have to remind you that this was your choice. Leave, and I strongly suggest you do not return.”

Angel came menacingly close to the doorway. “You can’t keep me from seeing her.”

“Can’t I? Are you that determined to hurt her again?”

Angel fell silent, gazing through the doorway with tormented eyes.

“Forgiveness is a grand virtue,” Giles said in a quiet voice. “I try to embody it, when I can. I have forgiven you murder, though I sleep every night in the bed where you left her body. I have forgiven you torture, though I still bear the scars.”

“That was when I had lost my soul.”

“You had your soul when you drained Buffy near to death, because she could not bear to watch you die.” Giles stepped forward, right to the threshold. “You had it when you left her. You’ll understand if my well of forgiveness is not limitless.”

“I left her for her own good,” Angel argued. “So she could move on, be happy.”

“And if you truly wish her to be happy, you’ll stay gone.”

Angel fell silent, looking at the ground. “You’ll call me if I’m needed?” he asked at last, voice low.

“In that highly-unlikely eventuality, yes,” Giles sighed. “But in the meantime, I recommend you stay far away.” He smiled faintly. “Give my regards to Broadway.”

“Broadway’s in New York.”

“Indeed it is.” _That might be far enough, _Giles didn’t say, but he suspected Angel heard it anyhow.

Two centuries of living undoubtedly gave one an ear for subtext.

With a nod of farewell to Angel’s retreating back, Giles closed his door and set his empty mug and the crossbow on his desk, returning his chair to where it belonged. After a moment’s thought, he fetched himself a glass of whiskey and selected some music, starting the record before settling in for the night’s reading. There, that was much more pleasant.

Perhaps not everything was right with the world, but this would do.

*

Everything was all wrong.

Spike glared up at the moon as he and Buffy strolled down the street in the wee hours of the morning, holding hands, which was wrong, after a lovely evening, which was wrong, headed to her bloody house, which was completely wrong, and he was fairly bloody sure the moon was wrong, too, and the light November breeze, and the night itself, because… well, it couldn’t bloody well be _right_, could it? He felt it under his skin, itching discomfort, prickles and niggles and wiggles of wrongness, and it had to be the slayer’s fault.

He’d thought he knew where they stood, the slayer and he. Bitter enemies, united temporarily in a common cause, enjoying their physical pleasures along the way -- and if he’d fallen into old habits of pampering and spoiling, that was to be expected as well. He’d been pampering and spoiling his black beauty for more than a century, and his dear mother before that, and it was hard to teach a bad dog new tricks, so of course he’d turned his love of having someone to care for on the only person around for him to do so. That all made sense to him. It wasn’t anything he couldn’t toss aside the moment they’d stuck it to Angel and he was free to kill the slayer again. The Gem of Amara was still safe and his -- he checked daily, now, and had made a public show over a number of red-herring hidey-holes to distract Harmony -- and so his eventual victory over the slayer was ensured.

And then she had offered him her blood.

Not her throat, of course -- she was understandably twitchy about being bit, having been through it twice, and she wasn’t a fool -- but she’d been oddly sensitive to him, to his desires and his needs, and when she’d shyly offered to let him taste, he’d been overwhelmed with something powerful and indescribable, the slavering beast just barely held in check by a sense of awe. He’d wanted to fall upon her in a frenzy, wanted to worship at the altar of her cunt, wanted to weep into her breast, and in the end he’d done all three, intoxicated by the heady taste of her, crazed by her sweet surrender. And when he had thought he could know no greater bliss, Buffy had upped the ante yet again, chaining him up and pushing him to his limits.

They’d called it torment, but they both knew it was a gift.

His hand had shaken when he’d dripped blood on the new crystal to renew his promise, and for a moment it had felt like a real promise, like something he was doing for her, not just for their revenge, and then just as he'd been about to speak she’d smiled and stroked his tangled hair back from his forehead and said, _I think we need to change the wording a bit._ She'd whispered what she wanted him to say in his ear, and his voice had grown rough as he repeated it.

_I swear and promise not to hurt or kill any humans, or drink any human blood... without Buffy's consent._

That was when the itching, the wrongness had started. He’d repeated her words, and he’d imagined the next night and the next, his mouth drenched in her blood, blood given _with her consent_, and his skin had tingled and he’d felt dizzy and wrong and drunk and wrong and faint with relief, and he’d let his mouth yammer something about how he hoped she had enough blood to last the whole week because he was bloody starving, and she’d riposted with _you get what you get and you don’t throw a fit, asshole_, and he’d fed her more chocolate and another cup of tea and tucked the hot water bottle into her belly and a clean blanket around them both and… they’d slept.

She’d slept in his arms.

She’d _slept._

Had they mistakenly crossed over into some bizarre alternate universe where slayers had no fear of vampires? Had she secretly cast some spell on him, to make him not a threat? Did she have some underhanded plot to kill _him_ in his sleep? Perhaps Harmony had shot her bloody mouth off about the Gem, the slayer and her watcher had already done their bloody research and found some bloody counter-spell or her own gaudy piece of jewelry, and she was just biding her time waiting for _him _to make the first move so she could finish him off? She certainly wore enough godawful trumpery he’d hardly even notice if she had something new.

None of it made sense. Not a single explanation for the way she’d drifted off in his arms, nor the way she’d sleepily blinked and smiled at him when they awakened, nor how she’d kissed him goodbye as she headed off into the sunlit morning for some class she could just as well have skived off. Nor least of all the way she’d met him the next night and they’d done it again. Wrong, all wrong; he’d caught himself chanting it in his head as he’d fucked her, unable to stop despite the wrongness.

He’d muttered it under his breath a few nights later, when he’d ended up trailing behind the slayer like a bloody trained poodle as she and the wicca investigated some murder at the university -- not that he didn’t find severed ears interesting, or have opinions on what sort of demon might be doing the severing, it was just… wrong.

He’d wanted to howl at the wrongness when their investigations had led them to a bloody church, just before sunrise on the holiday, and they’d ended up fighting side by side against some bloke with a stone knife and more self-important angst than bloody Angel himself -- the fighting had been a bit of all right, he and the slayer had a rhythm now that was bloody brilliant, but after the fellow had gone all raven-y and scarpered, they’d discussed theories and dissected fighting techniques and traded insults all the way to Giles’s flat, stopping at a payphone halfway to call in a tip to the police about the dead priest. They’d snogged madly outside the watcher’s door until the creeping sunlight was almost at their feet, and then slipped inside, and Buffy had napped on the watcher’s couch while Spike had watched her sleep from the recliner opposite, utterly failing to read a book he’d plucked at random off the overstuffed shelves.

Buffy had fussed around before she slept -- drawing the heavy drapes to make sure he’d be safe from the sunlight, checking over his bruises, offering him a cup of tea.

He’d felt positively ill.

The watcher had awakened and swiftly covered his resentful surprise at finding his living room occupied with an offer of more tea and a proper English breakfast. Spike would have bit Buffy out of sheer resentment of the awkward hospitality if the watcher hadn’t also made a point of keeping a crossbow close at hand as he puttered around the kitchen. That, at least, felt like proper respect for Spike’s evilness.

Buffy had awakened when the sausages were frying, her eyes blinking open slowly and going straight to Spike in his recliner, meeting his glare with a soft smile.

“Morning,” she’d yawned.

He’d wanted to snarl back _What’s bloody good about it?_ but she’d cunningly left the _good _out of her greeting, the crafty bitch, and so he’d simply bared his teeth.

“Good of you to tell me you were stopping by early,” Giles called out from the kitchen, sarcasm heavy in his voice.

“Turkey waits for no man,” Buffy replied. “Plus there was a thing last night. Possibly related to the ear thing. Figured you should know post-haste.” She frowned sleepily. “So, what does that even mean? Because the postal service is anything but hasty. They don’t even deliver on holidays.”

“It’s from the sixteenth century,” Spike and Giles had said in unison, at which point Spike had subsided again into resentful silence while the watcher continued the explanation, because that was so bloody wrong he might as well be a bloody Carmelite nun.

They’d given Giles a report. Spike, William the Bloody, Slayer of Slayers, had given the slayer’s watcher a fucking _report_. Like he was a fucking white hat. And Giles had listened to him with all appearance of serious contemplation. Completely fucking wrong.

The witch had arrived with a stack of books, a packet of peas, and a shy greeting for Spike before she’d launched into some rant about atrocities that had led into a ridiculous argument with Giles as Buffy looked on, increasingly agitated, and when the slayer had run to the kitchen to baste her bloody turkey, Spike had had enough, leaping to his feet and stalking towards the bickering duo.

“Would you stop your bloody boo-hooing about the bloody Indians? You won. All right? You came in and you killed them and you took their land. That's what conquering nations do. Bloody get over it and stop whingeing. You’re upsetting Buffy!”

When they turned to him in unison, Willow’s eyes huge as saucers, Giles slowly removing his glasses, Spike had realized what he’d said, how insanely wrong it was, and turned on his heel, stalking into the kitchen, where Buffy was crouched before the oven, looking like she was about to cry as she plied her turkey baster.

“Native Americans,” she’d sniffled. “We don’t say Indians. It’s culturally inappropriate.”

“Good,” he’d growled. “So am I.” And he’d stroked her hair until she finished her task and closed the oven.

Bloody Xander had arrived with his bird, greeting Spike with a casual wave, the fucking bastard, and bearing tales of some co-worker of his who’d apparently come down with a host of ailments ranging from smallpox to syphilis after falling into some lost mission.

“Sounds as American as apple pie,” Spike had joked darkly.

Anya had actually shaken her bloody finger at him. “Politics is an inappropriate topic of conversation at a holiday gathering,” she’d chided, and then gone on to describe the symptoms of syphilis in excruciating detail.

Buffy had interrupted after a bit and handed Xander a shopping list.

Xander read the list with a frown on his face. “Uh, where am I supposed to get pig’s blood?”

“Carniceria La Bodeguita, on Haley Street,” Buffy had shrugged. “We have a standing order.”

Xander had nodded and headed out the door with his girlfriend in tow.

Spike had retreated to the recliner, fuming, as Buffy resumed cooking and Willow resumed her argument-slash-strategizing with Giles and he himself resumed being… not right.

This was wrong. Wrong wrong _wrong_ wrong bloody fucking wrong.

It had almost been a relief when an arrow had come flying out of the darkness to pierce the ridiculous scarecrow centerpiece on the table. Buffy had gasped and glared up at the window, where their _Native American _mate from earlier was standing all brooding, nocking another arrow to his bow.

“Listen,” she said in a pacifying tone of voice. “Maybe I wasn't clear before about how terrible we all feel. Because we're trying to help--”

Another arrow flew from the window, swooshing through Buffy’s hair as she dodged, lodging in Spike’s thigh.

She gaped at Spike for a second, and then whipped back to face Hus. “You just shot my boyfriend!”

Spike had caught a flicker of movement from the windows behind him, and leapt up just in time to take an arrow to the chest.

“Watch the heart!” he snarled, stomach clenching with the sick realization that the bloody arrow had been aimed at Buffy’s back.

“Get down!” Giles shouted, and he and Buffy took shelter behind the table; Spike rushed to join them, feeling another arrow tear into him, and another.

It was all a blur after that -- the best kind of blur, the blur of a battle against the odds, fists and fangs and no quarter given, and Spike had felt right again, just for a bit, until Buffy had taken an arrow to the arm, and then… well, everything had gone red, hadn’t it? He really didn’t remember it very clearly, except for the fucking_ bear_ Buffy had made, but then she killed it, and the attackers had faded away into green smoke, leaving them all battered and wounded and oh god Buffy’s _arm_, he scooped her up and bore her to the couch and laid her there, investigating the hole in her arm. She’d pulled out the arrow and put pressure on, but it was still oozing blood.

“Where’s your fucking plasters?” he’d snarled at Giles. “And we need bloody mercurochrome.”

He’d tended her wound and kissed her forehead, and then when he’d tried to tuck another pillow behind her she’d sat up with a huff.

“For Pete’s sake, Spike, I’m fine. You still look like a pincushion.”

Spike had glanced down at the arrows that had pierced him. “Well, yeah. But they missed the heart.”

She’d glared, eyes hot and implacable. “Get your ass in that chair and let’s get those arrows out.”

She’d bandaged his wounds.

She’d thanked him for fighting with her.

She’d seated him by her side at the dinner table and served him fresh warm blood in a snifter, elbowing him when his conversation got too edgy, sneakily holding his hand under the table, sometimes leaning over to whisper a private joke in his ear.

How could she not see how bloody _wrong _it all was?

And now here they were, walking through the wrongness of the night, headed to Buffy’s house.

“Mom’s gone for the week,” she’d said casually as they finished loading the watcher’s dishwasher. “The dorms are like a ghost town right now, so I figured I’d sleep in my own bed for a couple nights.”

“Sounds pleasant,” he’d grumbled. “I’m sure you’ll have pleasant dreams.”

“I put up some blackout curtains, so we can sleep in.”

He stopped short. _“We?”_

She’d blinked. “Well, you’re staying over, right?”

_Wrong,_ he hadn’t replied. Because of bloody course he bloody was.

It was bloody surreal, arriving at the Summers residence, following Buffy step by step up the stairs, past the framed art photos that adorned the public spaces, into the upstairs hall with its more casual family photos -- bitty Buffy laughing at the beach, awkward pre-teen Buffy at the skating rink, younger teen Buffy in a cheerleading dress -- down to Buffy's own room, butterflies on the wall, girlish white-painted iron bedstead, vanity still littered with bottles and trinkets, clean white sheets and pillows and lace and a ridiculous stuffed pig, and she turned to him and kissed him in the dark, sweet and urgent, and she tugged at his clothes, his shirt and trousers all pierced with holes, kissing each bandage as it was revealed, all slow and smooth like they were dancing, and then they were naked, silky skin sliding together and she tugged him back and back until they were sliding beneath her comforter, cool cotton against his flesh as she lay back and pulled him atop her until he was cradled between her thighs.

"I want it like this tonight," she said softly, and he nodded jerkily, kissing her forehead. His hands were on her, hers on him, caressing and teasing until she was hot and wet and ready and straining towards him.

"You want me," he whispered in hushed disbelief.

"Please," she whispered back. "Please."

He lifted himself on his elbows, one hand gliding down to fit his cock to her. "No chains tonight," he murmured.

"I don't need the chains," she gasped as he thrust inside.

"Feel safe, do we?" He bared his teeth, wrongness welling up inside him again.

"No," she laughed brokenly as he started to pump. "I don't feel safe at all. I don't need to."

He kissed her lying lips, feeling sloppy and unhinged. "I could kill you right now."

"You could try." And she grinned up at him, like she knew she'd won. "But there is no part of my body that isn't a deadly weapon." And oh god, she clenched around him, so tight, so fucking tight and wet, and he sobbed with ecstasy and thrust faster, harder, it was wrong, it was terribly wrong but he needed this, he needed her, he needed Buffy, Buffy, god, _Buffy--_

Oh god.

God, no.

He stared down at her, frozen with terror, with shock, with wrongness, and she pouted up at him, completely unaware that his brain had just fucking imploded.

"Don't stop," she begged, tilting her hips to him, her eyes all liquid and her lips all trembling, the scent of her arousal in his nostrils along with a faint hint of blood from her wound and the scent of her room, faded perfume and disinfectant. The dim light of the moon filtered around the curtains, making Buffy's hair glow in the darkness, and a part of him wanted to kill her now, right now, drain away the wrongness, except god, he couldn't, he could never, and a part of him wanted to break off a piece of the bedstead and beg her to stake him -- except the bed was bloody iron, that wouldn't work -- and all the parts of him were stuck, unable to even move.

She relaxed beneath him, raising a hand to stroke his cheek. "What's wrong?"

_Everything_. He couldn't speak but he had to, she'd _know_, she couldn't know, and so he forced his voice into something like nonchalance, managing to grit his teeth in a grin. "Nothing. Just thinking about the possibilities of this bed. Should bring a pair of handcuffs next time."

Buffy glanced up at the ironwork, then back at him, expression coy. "Oh, but I'm a good girl. I could never use _handcuffs_." She gasped theatrically. "Sorry I forgot to wear pearls so I could clutch them. Also, sorry I forgot to have pearls so I could wear them."

He wanted to give her pearls, he wanted to drape her with offerings, cover her with roses, ply her with unguents, lay the heads of her enemies at her feet, but god, he still couldn't move.

She stroked his cheek again. "Next time, maybe?"

"Yeah," he murmured. "Next time."

But there was still this time. She was hot and wet around him, and his cock hadn't got the bloody message that the apocalypse had come early, and so he forced his muscles to move, withdrawing from her heat and plunging back in, and god god god it was going to kill him, he was going to dust right here, and that gave him the strength to thrust again, and again, bloody moth diving joyfully into the flame, and she wrapped her arms and legs around him and urged him on and he automatically fell back into rhythm with her, the way they did when they fought, when they danced, when they shagged, whenever they were together, and oh god, could she see it in his eyes? Could she tell? He buried his face in her hair and thrust and thrust, as if he could bury the fearsome realization in her sweet cunt, as if he were Cúchulainn beating back the sea, as if he could fuck his way out of the truth.

He was in love with Buffy.

He loved her.

He _loved_ her.

Oh god, he was doomed.

The warm skin of her shoulder was right under his mouth and he couldn't help it, he bit her, blunt human teeth sinking into her soft flesh, and she shivered and quivered and clenched around him and _yes_ she said _more_ she said _harder_ she said and he laughed bitterly and ran his teeth along her throat, a tour of all the places he could kill her. _There_, where her blood pumped strongest, _there_, where it would hurt the most, _there_, where the pleasure of his fangs would make her come even as she died, biting her in each place hard enough to leave half-moon marks of his teeth, but not hard enough not hard enough and he reared back suddenly, afraid of himself, and she had her eyes closed, thank god, and he caught her arms from around his neck, circled her wrists with gentle fingers, pressed them down into her pillow so he could watch her, her sunshine gold all silvered by the moon, as she writhed and moaned and curled up to bite his arm, leaving her own marks, and god she was perfect and terrible and holy and sinful and he gave himself over to her completely, until she finally came around him, legs clenching tight around his hips, and he set his hands to her cheeks and kissed her quivering lips, nibbling his way down her shoulder and god, he couldn't, he couldn't, he sank his teeth harshly into her pillow and fucked her and fucked her until he spent inside her, spilling his seed and his spirit and the impossible truth, and she tenderly cradled him to her breast and stroked his hair and he clutched her tightly, clinging to the solid anchor of her body, as if she could save him.

God. Nothing could save him now. He was doomed, doomed, he might as well offer himself up for her stake now, except then he would have to give up this, this sweetness, and oh god he couldn't bring himself to do that either. Fucking doomed.

When he thought perhaps his eyes could lie again, he raised himself up on his elbow, kissing her soft lips.

"I hate you," he whispered desperately.

She smiled sleepily. "I hate you, too, honey."

And she curled into him and slept, while he stared at the ceiling and knew things would never be right again.


	15. Chapter 15

Buffy wished she could make things right for Willow, but it was clear things would never be right again.

Willow had been back down in the depths of despair since she’d learned that Oz had sent for all his stuff. Buffy was trying to be sympathetic -- she knew just what it was like, to hold on to hope and then have it crushed -- but it was starting to wear. Spike had been surprisingly insightful -- kind of to a rude extent, asking if she was fucking blind, which had earned him a bout of tickle torture, which may have been his cunning plan in the first place, the asshole -- and pointed out that Willow had been hanging by a thread. So Buffy had been putting in some special effort, which is why she was sitting here in their dorm room listening to Willow vent.

She had a lot of venting to do, as it turned out.

Willow was pacing now, lost in her rant. "I mean, I'm going through something. I just don't see why he was getting down on me."

"You just said he suggested not casting spells while you were upset," Buffy replied in the soothing voice she had found worked to calm Spike down after… well, a totally different situation than Willow's, granted, but soothing was soothing.

"Oh, like I'm a total amateur?"

Buffy sighed. "Giles just worries. Spells can be dangerous. It doesn't mean he thinks you're a bad witch."

"I am a bad witch," Willow muttered, her rage suddenly fading into misery.

_You're a better witch than I am a slayer, _Buffy thought guiltily. "No, you're a good witch."

"I'm not kidding anyone. If I had any real power, I could've made Oz stay with me."

Buffy stopped still at that. Maybe it was Cordelia talking, but… that didn't sound healthy. "You... wanted to make Oz stay against his will?"

Willow's eyes flew wide. "No! I just wish I could have… made him want to stay."

"If you _make_ him want it, he doesn't really want it," Buffy said softly. "It's not... consent."

Willow sat suddenly on the edge of her bed. "Oh. Um. I never thought of it that way."

"I'm glad you didn't make him stay," Buffy went on, going over to sit next to Willow. "I think you would have ended up hating yourself."

Willow looked up at her, eyes forlorn. "But… at least he would be here."

"But not consensually," Buffy persisted, taking Willow's hand. "And if he didn't consent to stay, he… he wouldn't have consented to anything else." Xander had made the mistake recently of reminiscing about that time in high school that he’d cast the spell that made all the girls fall in love with him, and how cool he’d been for not taking up any of the offered sex from (among others) Buffy -- and had gotten reamed up one side and down the other by Buffy and Anya, both of whom had Strong Opinions about mind-control spells and consent. (Buffy had taken one side and Anya had taken the other. They worked surprisingly well together.)

Willow's head was down over their hands. "What if you could have made Angel stay?"

"You mean if I could have _forced_ him to stay?"

"I mean… just made him."

"I wouldn't," Buffy said, realizing it was true. "I didn't just want him to stay. I wanted him to _want_ to stay. And he didn't. He chose to leave. So… I didn't get what I wanted." Buffy managed a shrug. "It wasn't the first time in my life that happened, and I bet it won't be the last."

"So, um…" Willow glanced sidelong up at Buffy. "Speaking hypothetically, if you could cast a spell so your will would be done just by saying it, and the only one you'd be affecting was you, and maybe a bendy Q-tip, would you do it?"

Buffy blinked. "Well, why would I need a spell to make _me_ do what I want me to do? Why don't I just do it?"

"Because you tried, and it didn't work."

"How much did I try?" Buffy squeezed Willow's hand. "I hope you appreciate how much I am not quoting Cor-- Xander quoting Yoda here."

"For weeks," Willow said sadly. "Weeks and weeks and Buffy, I just want it to stop hurting. Why can't I make it stop hurting?"

Buffy sat up straighter, like she'd heard battle trumpets sounding in the distance. They sounded a lot like Cordelia. “Okay, Willow, I don't know what your mom taught you about guys -- probably nothing good, having met your mom -- but here's something important: no guy anywhere in the world is worth three weeks of tears when he dumps you.”

“But… Oz. _Oz_. I love him.”

“Oz is gone," Buffy said, steeling herself to Cordelia-esque bluntness. "You need to get over it and move on.”

She was all set to start in on the shoe analogy when Willow just burst into tears, wrapping her arms around Buffy's middle, and okay, that worked too. Buffy wrapped her arms right back and gave Willow a squeeze.

"It's not fair," Willow sniffled.

"No, it's not." Buffy laughed ruefully. "But you know what the best revenge is, when some guy does you wrong? Moving on and… and being okay."

"Like you and Spike?"

_Definitely not, except… maybe. _"Yeah. We're totally living the dream."

Willow sat up suddenly, scrubbing at her eyes. "Are you living the dream tonight?"

"I guess so? We had planned on... getting together."

"Oh." Willow bit her lip.

"Why?"

"Well, I figured since I'm kinda grievey, we could, you know, have a Girls Night. Eat sundaes and watch SteeI Magnolias, and you can tell me at least I don't have diabetes." Willow's face lit up with hope.

"Willow, I…" Buffy caught the expression in Willow's eyes, and dammit, how did she manage to look so cute and pathetic? "I guess I can cancel."

Willow's face lit up. "Really? I mean, I don't want to mess up your, um, relationship, but if you think he'll be okay…."

"He'll pout, but I can make it up to him later. Did you want to invite Xander?"

"No, probably not." Willow made a face.

"Okay. I guess he's not a girl."

"That's not it." Willow glanced around shiftily. "It's just… he and Anya have been kind of joined at the, uh, pelvis lately, so we'd have to invite her, too."

"She, on the other hand… is a girl?"

"Yeah, but I… I don't want to watch the armadillo red velvet cake part with someone who's going to nitpick about actual entrails."

"Good point."

"But you can invite Spike," Willow said eagerly.

"I can?" Buffy had figured she'd have to swing by the crypt and leave Spike a note.

"Yeah, he's not like a guy at all." Willow blushed. "I mean, except for the guy body and his being your boyfriend and, um, doing… guy-ey things with you when I'm not around. I just mean he, uh, seems like he'd enjoy chick flicks and manicures. In a totally manly way."

Buffy laughed, because he almost certainly would. "I dunno, he may have entrails opinions."

"But he's not Anya," Willow pointed out.

"Duly noted." Buffy smiled, stroking Willow's hair back from her face. "I will go extend Spike an invitation for mani-pedis and dead armadillos."

Willow stood abruptly. "Hang on a sec." She walked off into the corner, took a deep breath, and started to recite.

"Let the healing power begin. Let my will be safe again. As these words of peace are spoken, let this harmful spell be broken."

Buffy frowned. "When did you cast a spell?"

"It's not important," Willow reassured her. "I just wanted…. It was a stupid spell. I don't think it even worked, but... better safe than sorry." She smiled weakly. "So, um, Chunky Monkey or Phish Food?"

"Both,” Buffy said decisively. “Both is good."

*

Being in love with Buffy was going to kill Spike.

It was pathetic, really. Now that his eyes had been opened, it was obvious just how fucking slayer-whipped he was -- a heater? Chocolates? Fucking _tea_? He might as well have posted an advert in the Sunnydale Press, or hired a fucking skywriter. Or both. But all right, Spike was nothing if not adaptable, and he’d thus far managed to hide his sick, perverted emotions from Buffy herself, and he was sure if things kept on going she’d eventually do something that he could use as an excuse to kill her, so the plan was still bloody well on.

He just needed to start wanting her dead again, and everything would be right as rain.

Of course he had no fucking clue what she could do to make him want to kill her -- he’d made it more than a century without staking Drusilla, who was twice as infuriating and a hundredth as faithful, and he hadn’t even killed Harmony yet, despite the fact that he’d never loved her and she was unbelievably annoying -- but it made him feel a little better now that he had a plan. A three-step plan, even, simple as bloody Simon.

Step One: Get revenge on Angel.

Step Two: ???

Step Three: Kill Buffy.

As soon as he figured out a viable Step Two, he was in business.

Tonight was another ream of evidence in the Whipped Spike Files (which sadly did not involve actual whips) -- he'd actually agreed to forgo their planned night of patrolling and shagging to come watch bloody Steel Magnolias, of all things, while helping Buffy and Willow do their bloody nails.

He'd blustered a bit, holding up his chipped black nails. "This the look you're going for, love? I don't do bloody topcoats. I'm fucking _punk_."

Buffy had giggled, the adorable bitch. "Spike, I've been hanging out with you for how long? I know how much work you put into making those look just right."

"Making them look like rubbish, you mean."

She'd folded her arms challengingly. "You know, Drusilla had really fantastic French manicures every time I saw her. The kind of manicures a girl can't do for herself. I wonder who helped her out with those?"

"I ate a bloody aesthetician," Spike snapped.

Buffy raised her eyebrows.

"All right, so I did her bloody nails," he'd admittedly grouchily. “I also did her bloody makeup and her bloody hair and mended her bloody clothing.”

She'd smiled like a fucking angel. "I've never had a French manicure. Can you do French braids, too?”

“Of course I fucking can,” Spike grumbled. “Any ninny with fingers can fucking do a fucking French braid.”

“Then welcome to Girls Night,” Buffy had laughed, taking his hand, and he’d followed her out of the crypt without even a backward glance at his chains.

Well, maybe one glance, but it hadn’t stopped him. Completely fucking whipped.

Halfway to Buffy’s house, he fished the packet of photos from their camera out of his pocket, sullenly handing it over to her.

“Didn’t think you’d want the witch to see these,” he muttered.

“Receipt?”

“It’s in there,” he snarled.

She squeezed his hand. “Thank you. I know you don’t care, but it’s important to me.”

He didn’t tell her that he’d seen the fellow ahead of him in line at the drugstore drop his receipt on the floor, right where Spike could grab it, and he’d still fucking paid for the photos, because he was a fucking whipped sap who actually wanted to do the inane white-hat shite that was important to Buffy just because it was important to her. He was a fucking disgrace.

But Buffy smiled.

She let go of his hand to shuffle through the photos. They were good -- he’d had years of practice aiming cheap cameras at himself, he knew how to frame a shot. The first few, he’d been hamming it up for the camera -- throwing up the two-fingered salute, sticking out his tongue, puckering up. Looking through them, he’d been able to pinpoint the moment that he’d stopped playing, that his hand had started operating the camera without him, a fugue state of passion and ecstasy, picture after picture, and he _had _gotten the moment she’d wanted, the moment his orgasm ran over him like a fucking freight train, because his hand had convulsed along with the rest of him, capturing his face in an expression of… well, Spike couldn’t quite define it in words, but the next picture on the roll had been just a bit after, and… god. How had he not known earlier? He’d been looking at the camera again, eyes naked and bruised and simply bleeding love. He’d almost kept that photo back, hidden it from her, except a tiny part of him wanted her to see it, wanted her to recognize it for what it was.

He held his breath as she looked at picture after picture, but if she saw his heart on display, she didn’t say anything. She did look at the last two, the ones of them both together, for a long time, silently walking, her face unreadable.

“Where’s the one of me?” she said at last.

Spike managed not to pat the pocket where he’d tucked that print away. “Didn’t turn out. Bad exposure.”

“Oh.” She bumped her shoulder into him. “That’s what you get for being an asshole.”

“Yeah, I got what I deserved,” he said drily.

“These are good, though.” She held up the one of them kissing. “I’d just mail one to Angel anonymously, except I don’t have an address.”

“What, you’d waste this keepsake of our tender moment on that wanker?” He made an elaborately mournful face to cover up the fact that he was actually kind of unhappy she didn’t want to keep the bloody photograph.

“Good point,” she said, oblivious to his turmoil. “And I still don’t know what a wanker is, and I still don’t want you to explain it.”

“How did you like it?” Spike purred, channelling his annoyance into being annoying.

“Like what?”

“The money shot.” Spike plucked the photos from her hand and shuffled through to the one he wanted, brandishing it before her. Not the bleeding-love shot, of course, that was too raw, but the one she’d said she wanted.

She bit her lip. “I like it,” she finally said, shyly.

“Yeah?” His voice broke, which would be fucking embarrassing if he weren’t too focused on her to care.

“I don’t… I don’t really get to _see_, you know? I’m, um, too busy feeling, or doing. So… I see it, but I don’t _see _it.” She took the picture from him, biting her lip again. “You’re beautiful.”

Bloody buggering fuck. What was a fellow supposed to say to that? He didn’t say anything, just stepped in front of her and kissed her, feeling too fucking fragile but too fucking bad. “I’m buying another camera,” he whispered against her lips. “I want pictures of _your _face when I’m licking your delicious cunt.”

She wrinkled her nose. “I probably look stupid.”

“You look brilliant.” He kissed her again, hard and fast. “You glow.”

She grinned at him then. “So do you.”

“That’s just the evil exuding from my pores,” he said, voice coming out low and gravelly. “I radiate badness.”

She just rolled her eyes and started walking again; he fell in beside her, trying not to be fucking obvious that he was her fucking lapdog, but also trying to be just as close to her as possible, just like a fucking lapdog.

“So. Just a quick note of warning,” Buffy said after a bit. “No fact-checking the red velvet entrails.”

“Most entrails aren’t red,” Spike said facetiously.

“Yeah. That. Don’t do it.”

Spike had seen Steel Magnolias a time or two. Drusilla had thought it hilarious, laughing like a loon when Julia Roberts had keeled over. He had a feeling Buffy and Willow wouldn’t have quite the same reaction. “Is the witch in a fit of the dismals, or trying to laugh it off?”

“Kind of both?” Buffy suddenly reached out and grabbed his hand. “Thanks for… for being okay with this. I’m sure you had other ideas for tonight.”

He shrugged. “Perhaps.”

“I did, too.” She sighed. “But friends are kind of… important to me.”

“Know that,” he grumbled back, squeezing her hand. “It’s what makes you so hard to kill.” _That and the fact that I love you._

She laughed. “Now there’s a compliment.”

“News flash, princess. _Easy to kill _might as well mean_ dead_. It_ is_ a fucking compliment.”

“Well, thank you very much, kind sir.” Buffy took a few steps away and gave him a mocking curtsey. A surprisingly good curtsey.

“Thought you’d left the fainting maiden behind, that Hallowe’en.”

She shrugged and stepped back in pace with him. “Some of the skills stuck around. Which was actually pretty weird -- like, I’d look at a ball of yarn at the craft store, and I’d see myself actually spinning it, on a spinning wheel. And I once walked through the meat department of the grocery store and actually pictured myself roasting a pig. Except not, like, the romantic pig-with-apple-on-spit part, the grody cutting out guts and handling raw meat part.”

“Love a good luau,” Spike replied cheekily.

“Not happening anytime soon,” Buffy snarked back, winding her fingers into his. “Thankfully, the traumatic pre-modern-technology memories have started to fade. I’d be lucky if I could identify a pig, much less slaughter it.”

“Still have the bloody airs and graces.”

“That’s just me,” she laughed.

Spike leaned over and nipped at her shoulder, unable to resist. “Prefer you all deadly,” he growled.

“Oh, really?”

“When you were all maideny, just wanted you dead,” he murmured, squeezing her hand. “When you turned back to_ you_, just wanted you. Until you bloody punched me in the nose.”

She grinned sidelong. “You deserved it.”

“Do I deserve you?”

She was silent for so long it was a good job he didn’t need to breathe, because bugger if he wasn’t waiting with bated breath for her reply.

“No,” she finally said, voice quiet.

“Good!” he sneered defensively.

“It isn’t about deserving,” she went on, as if he hadn’t spoken. “Nobody ever really gets what they deserve.”

“Not even that bloody swim coach?”

“Not even him. Nobody deserves what he got.”

“And I got you.”

“Yep. And I got you.” She smiled wryly. “Yay us!”

Spike didn’t say another word the whole way to her house, just held her hand and wished what he deserved was her loving him.

Willow was already there, face shy and eager and somehow surprised to see them, like she'd actually thought Buffy was going to choose Spike over her, which Spike could have told her was rubbish, the only thing Buffy valued more than her friends was her fucking sacred duty, but then Willow hugged Buffy and then out of the blue she kind of gave Spike an almost-hug, too, and he almost hugged her back before he realized what he was doing and ostentatiously sauntered off to the kitchen to evilly raid Joyce's liquor cabinet, because that was what he did, evil things, except there was a whole fucking bottle of Johnny Walker Black, when he knew Joyce fucking hated whiskey herself, and it sure as hell wasn't for the slayer or the witch, so… So.

The lady herself came downstairs a short while later, when they were just fetching the ice cream pints from the freezer -- bloody Willow had said sheepishly she didn’t know what flavor Spike would like, so she’d bought him three, White Russian (because booze?), Devil’s Food Chocolate (because evil?), and Cherry Garcia (because he always got two cherries in his pina colada? Which made Buffy blush, and also made Spike growl at how fucking obvious he fucking was).

“I see you found it,” she said wryly, leaning her hip against the island and nodding towards the open bottle of whiskey.

He nodded back, pouring. “Ta, Joyce.”

Joyce watched sidelong as Buffy and Willow carried armfuls of ice cream into the living room, then returned her piercing gaze to Spike’s face. “So, you and Buffy.”

“Buffy and me.” He lifted his glass in a toast. “What can I say? She’s something special. Takes after her mother.”

That startled a blush out of her, but she covered it with a stern glare. “Don’t think flattery is going to get you anywhere, young man.”

He grinned. “I’m a hundred and twenty-six.”

Her eyebrows shot up. “Really?”

“Not really,” he shrugged. “But older than you, young lady.”

She mock-glared. “Aren’t you supposed to be convincing me you’re a fit partner for my daughter?”

“Oh, come now, Joyce,” he breezed, enjoying himself. “We both know I’m not.”

She walked past him, fetching down her own bottle from the shelf. “But you’re dating.”

“Suppose we are.”

She poured a scant finger of amaretto. “This is the point when I remind you that I hit you over the head with an axe once, and I’d do it again if you hurt her. Except I’d probably use the sharp end this time.”

“Would think less of you if you didn’t,” he replied, clinking his glass against hers.

She sipped her drink meditatively, regarding him. Finally, she sighed. “You know, I didn’t approve of her relationship with Angel.”

“Knew you had fine taste.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Because he was a vampire.”

“Not because he was a brooding, selfish wanker who had the personality of a scone?”

She giggled reflexively before schooling her face to sternness again. “I told him I didn’t approve, said he’d have to make some hard choices, and in the end he left.”

“So I hear. Good riddance.”

“So why should I treat you any differently?” demanded Joyce, folding her arms.

Spike looked at her steadily for a long time. “Because,” he sighed at last, “I don’t leave.”

“Don’t you?”

“I don’t.” He gritted his teeth. “Do just about anything for the woman I love.”

“And that’s Buffy.”

His eyes flickered towards the living room, but Willow and Buffy were chattering away, likely couldn’t even hear they were having a conversation. “Yes,” he said quietly, feeling a knot unwind in his gut just at being able to say it. Though this was part of their charade, wasn't it? He wasn't all that sure anymore.

“Hmm.”

They sipped their drinks together in silence, Buffy and Willow’s voices from the other room a bubbly backdrop to what felt like Spike’s execution.

“She doesn’t know,” Spike said at last.

“You haven’t told her?”

Spike glanced off towards the living room again. “No,” he growled, suddenly feeling even more sullen and pissed-off.

“Maybe you should.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Thought you didn’t approve of vampires.”

“I don’t.” Joyce downed the last of her drink. “But she’s an adult now. She deserves to get to choose. And I’m thinking you’re not the type to make that decision for her, are you?”

He didn’t get to answer, because Buffy appeared in the hallway just then, rolling her eyes. “Are you coming, Spike? The ice cream’s going to melt.”

“Well, we can’t have that.” He nodded to Joyce, snagging the whiskey bottle between his fingers. “Lovely seeing you again, Joyce.”

She smiled, looking for all the world like it had indeed been lovely. “Enjoy the movie.” They were halfway down the hall when she called out again. “Spike?”

“Yes?” He paused, looking back.

“I’ve stocked up on hot chocolate and marshmallows. You should stop by again sometime.”

He swallowed. “I will.”

Buffy paused and looked back. "You going to watch, Mom?”

Joyce laughed wryly. “No, I’ve got to work tomorrow. Can’t put myself through the emotional wringer when I’ve got a stack of invoices to process eight hours from now, and I’m too old to fall asleep on the couch. I’ll go up to bed in a moment.”

She turned away to put her glass in the dishwasher, and Spike let Buffy’s warm hand tug him down the hall and into the living room.

Willow was already cuddled up in an afghan at one end of the couch, spoon sticking out of a pint of Ben and Jerry’s; Buffy settled right next to her, and Spike shrugged and headed for the recliner, except then he caught Buffy’s lower lip sliding into a pout and stopped in his tracks.

She scooted closer to Willow. “Right here,” she said imperiously, patting the end of the sofa.

Willow regarded him with serious eyes. “I don’t mind if you guys snuggle,” she said bravely. “Just, you know, not too much.”

Buffy slipped off her boots and pulled her feet up to sit cross-legged on the center cushion. “I think we can control ourselves.”

_Speak for yourself_, Spike grumbled to himself, already hard just from the pressure of her knee on his thigh. He stroked her knee, sinking deeper into the cushions and stretching out his legs.

“Here’s yours, Spike!” Willow wriggled out of her afghan cocoon enough to hand him his three pints of ice cream.

“And I’m expected to eat all of this?”

Buffy shrugged. “We’ll help. And you can have some of ours, too. The ice cream is communal.”

“There’s chocolate syrup and whipped cream and sprinkles, too,” Willow said eagerly. “For when you’ve eaten down far enough to add stuff. Sundaes are mandatory.”

Spike eyed the array of toppings on the coffee table. “And cherries,” he said silkily.

“I got the big jar!” Willow’s voice was proud.

Buffy blushed. “Mandatory for the mandatory sundaes,” she said lightly, giving him a warning glare.

“Right.” This was definitely going to kill him.

“Need a blanket?” Willow smiled sheepishly. “Um, I already took my favorite, but there’s more.”

Buffy leaned over the back of the couch, dragging out something pink and fuzzy. “Here. This is the best one that isn’t Willow’s favorite.” She draped it around Spike’s shoulders fussily.

He glared at her and moved the blanket to cover the erection swelling his jeans.

Willow leaned forward so she could see Spike’s face, eyes serious. “So, don’t forget, we have to save half the ice cream for later, when it gets to the sad part.”

Spike looked dubiously at his three pints, lined up on the arm of the couch. “Only half?”

“It’s harder than you’d think,” Buffy laughed.

He growled and adjusted himself.

“Okay, everybody cozy?” Willow wriggled back into her blanket, a satisfied smile on her face. “I’m pressing _play_.”

As the opening music started, Buffy leaned back, angling herself so she was up against Spike’s shoulder. “This okay?”

He slipped his hand around her waist, stroking the soft warm skin of her belly. “Yeah,” he managed roughly. “This’ll do.”

She shivered. “Cold fingers,” she whispered.

“Ice cream.”

“Yeah.” She snuggled closer. “Share blankie?”

“Get your own bloody blankie,” he murmured into her shoulder.

“But this is the second-best one,” she said with a pout, and he rolled his eyes and dragged the blanket further to tuck it around her lap.

“No more blankie-hanky-panky,” Willow said with a jokey frown. “There’s a fancy Louisiana wedding a-brewing.”

And thus began the most torturous two hours of Spike’s entire existence. Which had, in fact, included actual, non-sexual, extremely painful torture.

Buffy cuddled and snuggled and fed him bites of ice cream. She laughed and chatted with Willow, and elbowed him when he whispered snark in her ear about the red velvet armadillo innards, and then fed him more ice cream. When the movie got to the boring middle bit, between the wedding and the hospital -- and fuck if half the ice cream wasn’t gone by then, after all -- she let him braid her stupid hair, two French braids down her back, then switched places with Willow so he could do a fancy braid sideways around her head while Buffy painted her toenails, and then Buffy made Spike stretch his legs out and tugged off his boots and socks so she could paint his toenails while he was doing Willow’s manicure.

“French manicures aren’t really from France,” Willow said as he pressed sticker templates to her pink-painted nails, completely fucking oblivious to the fact that Buffy’s hands on his feet were driving him fucking insane with lust. “It’s just a clever marketing ploy.”

He grunted in response, unable to form words.

Willow didn’t seem to care that he was nonverbal. “I read that in one of Buffy’s magazines.”

Buffy just kept on applying black lacquer to his toenails, her strong fingers caressing his arch and stroking his instep and tickling his toes, and _fuck_ if he wasn’t the hardest he’d ever been, grateful for the fuzzy pink shield draped around his midsection.

He glared at Buffy hotly when she came back up on the couch while Willow had retreated to her end of the couch to admire her nails.

“Do me now,” she said, voice sultry.

He raised his eyebrows. “In front of Willow? Naughty, naughty.”

“My nails.” She wiggled her fingers peremptorily. “It’s my turn.”

He rolled his eyes and reached for the pink lacquer.

“Not that.” She pressed the bottle of black into his hand. “We should match.”

And so he painted her nails black, then when they’d dried he put on the damn templates and painted the white tips, feeling her hands trembling in his, and god, she was as turned on as he, he inhaled her arousal like opium smoke, his gut clenching, and then it was done and they were back on the couch, cuddled up under the blanket, and he was just going to fucking dust, wasn’t he? Just explode into particles right here on the sofa because she was so hot and wet and fragrant and right there and god he loved her and oh god, he’d told Joyce, what the fuck had he been thinking? He buried his face in Buffy’s shoulder and breathed her in.

"You have stupid hair," he muttered, kissing it.

"Oh, yeah?" she whispered back. "Must be because some asshole put stupid braids in it." She wriggled into a more comfortable position, folding her hand over his, and he couldn't keep from curling in and nipping at the nape of her neck, right between the braids, blunt teeth tracing her spine.

Willow suddenly scooted up against Buffy. “It’s sundae time.”

Buffy blinked up at the Hallowe’en decorations on the screen. “Oh, yeah.” She leaned forward and squirted whipped cream into the top of the Phish Food and Chunky Monkey pints, handing one to Willow. “What’s your poison, Spike?”

Spike waved the ice cream away and poured himself more liquor instead, huddling back into his corner of the couch, expecting Buffy to get all cuddled up with Willow.

Instead she scooted back against his chest, her braids right under his chin, while Willow flopped over on top of her, both of them watching the screen avidly as they dug in to the ice cream.

“This is where it gets good,” Buffy whispered up at him. “Watch.”

Bloody hell, hadn’t he told her he’d seen the bloody thing before? Dru had loved this part, the little nipper all fancied up for Hallowe’en, just the sort she preferred to eat, had watched with glee as his happiness turned to tears. She’d laughed and laughed and laughed, dancing in front of the screen, all through the husband’s return home, the dramatic discovery, and then the long silent vigil at the hospital, no music but what was in her head. He’d not ever really paid much attention to the movie, now that he thought on it -- he’d been too entranced by Dru herself, and he’d known the story already, from that demon production they’d been to back when the stage play was new. (The actors had needed to improvise a bit when the Fyarl demon playing Ouiser Boudreaux had spontaneously bitten off the head of the vampire portraying Shelby far earlier than planned; it had been fucking brilliant.)

Watching it with Buffy was… different.

He could smell her tears before they fell, hers and Willow’s, feel her stillness, the way she sank into the drama onscreen, and he sank into it with her without even trying, sliding his fingers across her belly and sipping his whiskey and pressing soft kisses to her hair, watching what Buffy watched, and it was like it was new, except old, too, bringing up old things he’d long since stopped thinking of, how it had been when he was alive, watching his mother dying inch by inch, and then…. He skittered around that thought, fled closer to the now, remembering caring for Dru when she’d been so weak, the fear, the rage, and he watched as entranced as Buffy and Willow, the silent vigil at the hospital, until at last the beeping of the heart monitor slowed and slowed, and finally stopped.

His cheeks were wet, he realized, surreptitiously tugging up a corner of the fuzzy pink blanket to wipe his face. He was such a bloody fucking sap now.

When the scene moved on to the funeral, Willow and Buffy finally broke the silence with sniffles, clutching at each other (and Spike as well, since he was there) as they watched the mother break down by her daughter’s coffin, the last of the drama, and then the movie’s bittersweet conclusion.

“See, Willow?” Buffy said gently through her tears when the final credits started to roll, stroking Willow’s hair. “At least you don’t have diabetes.”

Willow nodded, smiling up at Buffy. “Yep. I’m lucky, huh?”

“We all are.” Buffy scraped her spoon across the bottom of her empty ice cream pint. “So, um, want to watch another video?”

Willow nodded soggily. “Did you want to pick?”

“No, you pick. This is your night.” Buffy glanced up at Spike. “We’ll clean up while you decide.”

Spike rolled his eyes and helped Buffy gather the empty ice cream tubs and the detritus of the toppings, carrying it all off to the darkened kitchen.

When he’d dumped his armload into the bin, he turned, and Buffy was there, eyes liquid and lips parted, and he bent down and kissed her eyelids, salt and wet, her sweet forehead, her damp cheeks, her trembling lips and they fell back against the island, lips moving together in something very like grief and very like joy and _oh god_ how he loved her. He cradled her face in his hands and kissed her and kissed her and what the bloody buggering fuck was wrong with him? He finally had her alone, finally had a moment of privacy, and this was all he wanted to do, lazily sip her sweet lips and drink her tears and just… be in love.

“You don’t have to stay,” she whispered against his lips. “I should warn you, Willow is probably going to pick something even more estrogen-laden.” She frowned. “Estrogenous? Is that a word? Anyhow, it might involve Hugh Grant.”

“And what else am I bloody going to do?” he murmured back, kissing the start of each of her French braids.

She shrugged. “I don’t know. I just thought I should give you the option. But you can stay, if you want.” She gave him a watery smile. “I like the snuggles. Just be warned, we’re probably going to fall asleep in a big pile on the couch at some point. That’s part of the tradition. You okay with that?”

Bloody hell, it was all he could do not to fall to his knees right there, confess his ungodly, insane emotions, and beg her to put an end to his torment. He kissed her again instead, the whole way back to breathlessness.

“You guys done smooching yet?” Willow called from the living room. “I’ve got two choices, but I’ll let you decide which one is better.”

“We can watch both,” Buffy called back, going up on tiptoes to give Spike one last kiss before heading down the hall.

A few hours later, Spike absently stroked Buffy’s hair and watched the end credits of yet another emotional tissue-fest of a movie roll, with Buffy draped across him, fast asleep, while Willow snored away all curled up on her corner of the couch.

He should be annoyed, shouldn’t he? Here he’d just spent bloody hours of his precious time helping Buffy making Willow feel better, for nothing more than a bottle of whiskey and a cuddle and a quart of bloody ice cream. He didn’t even bloody_ like_ ice cream, not even when he and Dru had found a boutique that had “blood” as one of its thirty-one flavours. He should be furious, he should be frustrated, he should be running screaming into the streets. He should be fucking draining the fucking slayer dry, now that she'd let her guard down, no fucking Gem of Amara needed.

Instead he felt… happy?

Fuck. That was it. He felt _happy. _Happy that a vampire slayer was using him as a bloody pillow, that he’d just spent an evening as her bloody handmaiden, happy that her mother had apparently accepted him into the family, that her friend had let him do her bloody hair, happy just to have been in Buffy’s bloody presence for the duration. What a fucking disgrace he was. Fucking _happy._

God, it was going to kill him. It was going to kill him. He couldn’t take it any longer.

It had to end.

The problem was… he didn’t want it to.


	16. Chapter 16

Cordelia wasn't answering her phone.

Buffy listened to the perky, confident answering machine message for the third time that night, frowning. She'd figured maybe Cordelia was just in the bathroom, or up to her elbows in dishes, or maybe just in the middle of a really good movie, but she'd waited a long time between calls, giving Cordy a chance to extricate herself from whatever, so it was a little worrisome, and when you added in the fact that Buffy had been calling all week with the same results it was downright terrifying. No Cordy answering the phone (nor her roommate either, for that matter), no Cordy returning her calls, not even an email or a text to at least say _busy now, later_. Cordelia might as well have simply vanished.

She left a message anyhow. “Hey, Cordelia. It’s Buffy. I know you’re probably super busy, but, um, if you have a minute I could really, really use some advice. Um, it might take more than a minute. But call me even if you don’t have time to talk, because I’m a little worried. Hope your job is going good and your boss isn’t making you crazy.”

She hung up and flopped back on her dorm room bed, sighing.

It had been a couple of weeks since Thanksgiving, and things had been… really, really nice. Better than nice. Fantastic.

It was awful.

Spike had been treating her like… like a goddess. Except not a goddess on a pedestal, that he couldn’t touch or anything. Because holy frijoles, had there been touching. Lots and lots of touching. Spike’s fingers and tongue had gone places on and in her that literally had never been touched before, they’d had sex in ways she’d never imagined possible, and she was starting to run out of ways to describe just how carnally delicious it all was. He didn’t seem to care how messy and awkward it sometimes got, and Buffy felt like… like they could do anything. Try anything. She could literally ask for anything, and he would say _god yes_, with his eyes rolling back in his head. And when she hadn’t after all liked something they tried, he’d noticed that, too, even before she had to break out the safe word, backing off to something he knew she enjoyed.

As for him, he liked everything. _Everything. _As long as it was Buffy, and Buffy was enjoying herself, so was he.

Except it hadn’t just been sex. There were a bunch of nights they didn’t even have sex, which was weird when the whole point of their relationship was maintaining a certain level of smelling-like-sex. (And it was weird that that thought didn’t even gross her out anymore, just made her feel kind of smug.) They’d been patrolling and talking, watching TV and movies, just hanging out. He’d purchased a book of Pablo Neruda’s poems for her -- receipt tucked in the front -- and he’d been reading them to her in their crypt, his rich voice making the sexy words even sexier. They’d argued and debated and laughed, sometimes all at once. Her mom had invited him to dinner a few times, and he’d actually come over, and her mom had told her after the second or third time that she liked Spike, and would Buffy please ask him what he was doing for Christmas?

Buffy hadn’t had the heart to tell her they probably wouldn’t be together anymore by Christmas. Except the way things were going, even that wasn’t too certain. And that thought made her feel weirdly happy. And when she tried to poke at that feeling, poke at any of her feelings about Spike, she just felt… uncomfortable. Weird. Shaky and uncertain and maybe a little sick, all heart-poundy and hyperventilatey.

Which was why she needed to talk to Cordelia. Cordelia would help Buffy wrap her head around why she was having such a fantastic boyfriend experience with the worst boyfriend choice ever. Or why she couldn’t stop thinking about Spike, in class or during meals or even when doing laundry. Or why….

Glancing at the clock, Buffy reached into her drawer and pulled out the envelope of photos Spike had handed her on Girl’s Night. She’d told herself she had brought them with her to campus so she could go get reprints of the coupley pictures to give people, hoping someone would send one to Angel, but she hadn’t done it yet. She just kept… looking through the pictures of Spike. The ones at the beginning, where he was just being an asshole. The ones in the middle, where he was plainly in the throes of ecstasy.

The one at the end, that she just couldn’t tear her eyes away from.

She pulled it out now, like she did almost every chance she got -- the corners were already kind of dinged up from how often she’d looked at it. What was that look in his eyes? It wasn’t his sexy look -- she knew that one backwards and forward. It was naked and vulnerable, soft and strong, and it made her shiver, made her wish he was here right now looking at her with those eyes. Which was bad. Really, really bad.

She sighed and firmly stuffed the photo back in the envelope -- a little too firmly, because all the negative strips spilled out onto her bed. Great. Using her fingertips on the edges -- not that she cared about these negatives, it was just habit -- she picked them up one by one, sliding them back in….

Wait. Hadn't Spike said the one of her hadn't turned out? She held that strip up to the light, squinting. Huh. Sure looked like her. Why would Spike…?

"Must have had a weird face or something," she muttered to herself. She couldn't really tell from the negative. You never could. She shrugged and put it away.

Buffy rolled onto her stomach and glared at the phone, which was still not ringing with a Cordy callback. God, she hoped nothing had gone wrong. Los Angeles was such a sketchy place, and she knew Cordelia didn’t have the funds to live anyplace nice, not at LA rental rates. Maybe she should take a trip down to check on her.

The door opened and Buffy hurriedly stuffed the packet of photos back in her drawer. “Hey, Willow. How was Wicca group?”

“Not sure.” Willow sat heavily on her own bed. “They keep talking about bake sales and dances and stuff. I’m wondering when we’re going to get to talking about actual magick. I mean, if I wanted to be planning social events to linger awkwardly on the fringes of, I could be pledging a sorority or something.”

“Bake sales? What are you raising funds for?”

“Candle outreach? I don’t know. It’s all talk.” Willow shrugged and made herself comfortable, laying back on her elbows. “So, you got a date tonight?”

“Yeah. Um, a patrol date. Not a real date. Mom’s out of town again, so we were going to watch a movie at home after.” _Also probably have sex before and after, _she thought, stretching in anticipation. Spike loved it when they were in her bed, got all tender and affectionate, but she was pretty certain she didn’t want to wait that long tonight. She was already all tingly and warm, just from lying here thinking about him. Even with all the weirdness.

Willow grinned. “Uh-huh. Sounds romantic to me.”

“Yeah. Real… real romantic.” Buffy rolled to her side, propping herself up on her elbow. “Willow, can I just ask you something?”

“Of course!” Willow’s eyes lit up.

“What do you really think? About me and Spike.”

Willow smiled gently. “Buffy, you know I support you completely. You’re an adult, and you can date whoever makes you happy.”

Buffy huffed out a frustrated breath. “I know, Willow. I know. I… I really appreciate it, how you and the gang have been so supportive. But I want you to be totally honest with me. Aren’t you, you know, just a little worried? I mean, it’s Spike. He’s still evil, even if he’s on hiatus, and he’s still a vampire. Aren’t you even just a teensy bit concerned?”

Willow’s eyes shifted away. “Well, um, we were at the beginning. Xander kind of freaked, you know? But now that we’ve gotten to know him, and we see how happy you two are together, you know, we can cope. I mean, it’s not like reformed evil people and supernatural killers aren’t usually the significant others of choice for the Scooby Gang. And even Giles -- he totally stood up for you when Angel came down and--”

“What?” Buffy interrupted, stomach clenching. “Angel came down?”

Willow gasped, eyes widening. “Oh, geez, I’m sorry. We had agreed not to tell you. We didn’t want you to be upset.”

“That’s sweet, Willow,” Buffy said hastily. “You’re an awesome friend. The best. Tell me about the Angel coming down thing.”

Willow bit her lip, hesitating, then leaned forward to whisper. “Right before Thanksgiving. Angel said some guy he worked with had a vision that you were in danger, and he came down to help out. Giles told him to go away and not come back.”

“Giles did that?” _Oh, god._

“Yeah. Remember when Giles had you do that thing, where you described what the vamps you had killed were wearing so he could put together a demographics analysis to send to the Watchers Council?”

“Is that what he was doing?” Buffy asked faintly, mind whirling. “I thought he was writing a paper on vampire fashion trends or something.”

“Well, he wasn’t doing either. He was checking to see if you’d killed the vampire in that guy’s vision. And he figured out that you had, so he closed the vision investigation and told Angel that it was all taken care of. And he said definitely never to come down again, that you didn’t need him and, um, I think he said some other stuff that he didn’t tell us because he looked all smug.”

“Oh.” Buffy sat up. “So Angel doesn’t know about me and Spike? Even though he came to Sunnydale to check up on me?”

Willow crossed the space between their beds, giving Buffy a reassuring hug. “Of course not! Like I said, we can see how happy you are. And Angel’s just a big poophead who never deserved you. We’re not going to give him a chance to come between you and Spike. Don’t worry.”

Buffy stared off into space over Willow’s shoulder, mind reeling. “Thanks, Willow,” she said, hearing her voice crack just a bit. “You guys are… you’re all such wonderful friends.”

Willow hugged her again. “You’re welcome. Now.” She sat back and gave Buffy a crooked grin. “Don’t you have a patrol date to get ready for?”

“Y--” Buffy’s voice caught; she cleared her throat. “Yeah. I’d better get changed.” She stood and crossed to her closet, rifling absently through her clothes, trying not to look as poleaxed as she felt.

Nobody had told Angel. Nobody was going to tell Angel. Angel wasn’t going to come down and separate her and Spike. Their plan was a total and complete failure.

So why did she feel relieved? Why was she looking forward to tonight with even more anticipation, even knowing Project Smell-Like-Sex-Spirit was a bust? Why, why, _why _was she grabbing a red silk shirt out of the closet?

God. Why wouldn’t Cordelia call her back?

*

Spike lay on his back on the sarcophagus, fingertip tracing the line of Buffy’s cheek on the slightly-crumpled photo. He’d got shoved in the chest by a pathetic fledgeling the other night, and while he’d staked the bastard right after, the damage had been done, the photo in his breast pocket wrinkled. Fucking wanker. Spike should have staked him worse.

God, she was gorgeous. He’d caught her expression just before she’d realized what he was doing -- wistful, apologetic almost-smile, candid eyes, shoulder half-lifted in a shrug -- and her hair had been just a trifle mussed from the night wind, her cheeks pinkened, and even though he knew if he’d asked her to smile for a picture she’d have blinded him with her beauty, this was… real. This was real Buffy, and god, he hoped she hadn’t binned the bloody negatives.

He needed another print. Prints. He’d wallpaper his bloody room at the lair with the photo if it wouldn’t start a bloody coup among the minions. And he was starting to think he wouldn’t mind that, either. He wouldn’t even mind if he had to dust the lot. They were bloody incompetent anyhow.

He was debating the best size to have the reprints made when the door to the crypt burst open with a slam, and he leapt to his feet to meet the threat only to face Buffy, her eyes flashing with emotion.

He hurriedly shoved the photo back in his pocket. “A bit early, aren’t you, love?”

“Says the guy who’s just hanging out here when it’s not even dark yet,” she snipped, and then she launched herself at him, wrapping her arms around his waist, and he automatically enfolded her in his arms, breathing in the warm miracle of her scent.

“What’s this, then?”

“It’s not going to work!” she sobbed.

“What’s not going to work?”

“The stupid plan!”

“What are you talking about? It’s a bloody brilliant plan.”

Words rushed from her in a torrent. “Yeah, but I thought my friends were going to be super judgey, and it turns out they’re not, they’re being totally nice and understanding and supportive instead, and even Giles, he’s supposed to be all _vampires are bad _except he’s not, he’s totally accepted you as my boyfriend and he told Angel to go away and never come back. And oh god, Angel was here! Angel was _here_, he was in town, and Giles told him to go away and he left and nobody is ever going to tell him we’re dating! Not ever! They all like you too much!”

Spike bared his teeth. “Well, I am a likeable fellow.”

“Well _duh_, but they’re supposed to be all prejudiced and stuff! And trying to run my life!” She buried her face in his chest.

“Hush now, pet,” Spike murmured in his most soothing voice. “I’m sure your precious Scoobies can be convinced to act to save you from my clutches. They just need more inspiration.”

“They don’t want to save me from your clutches!” Buffy wailed. “Mom wants you to come over for Christmas!”

Spike felt unexpected warmth blossom in his chest. “Does she, now?”

“It’s a total disaster!”

His arms tightened. “Is it, then?” he growled, unaccountably offended.

She lifted her tear-streaked face to his. “Spike, what are we going to do?”

There now, he couldn’t stay cross with a face like that. He cupped her cheeks in his palms and kissed her, thumbs brushing at her tears. “We’ll make it work, love. The plan’s sound. Just need to keep it up a bit longer. Xander’s been looking fragile lately. He’ll break soon enough.”

“You think so?” She sniffled.

“He’s hanging by a thread.” He kissed her again. “We’ll come up with something that will make him snap.”

“Like what?”

He grinned. “Could fuck you on the balcony of the Bronze. Think he’d notice?”

She rolled her eyes, laughing despite herself. “Probably not.”

“There. Knew I could get a grin.”

“You’re terrible.”

“That I am.” He kissed her on the forehead, mind racing.

He didn’t want his time with Buffy to end, not just yet. For starters, he still hadn’t got back to wanting to kill her, even though he’d been trying to work up motivation for bloody weeks. Today, before he’d left the lair, he’d even looked at the Gem of Amara, safe in its hiding place, and a terrible, inexcusable thought had crossed his mind.

_Maybe I should just bloody smash it._

He’d rethought that demented whim immediately, but still… he’d thought it. He’d thought about taking his guaranteed victory over the slayer, the one thing that could possibly get Dru back, and throwing it away. That was how sick he was now.

The truly sad part was, he’d started to think they needed Angel to come bear witness to their twisted passion play, not because he wanted his revenge, but because they were spinning their wheels. They couldn’t move forward or back, not with the sad-sack ghost of Angel hovering between them, maudlin puppy-dog eyes passing judgment on their every move. And while it was glorious where they were, this succulent melange of sex and battle and companionship, Spike had never been one to stand still.

He needed to be rid of Angel once and for all, and that meant the bloody plan just had to succeed. This had to end, whatever it was. It bloody well had to, no matter how much he wanted to keep Buffy just as she was. They had to get back on the road.

And then they’d see where the road took them.

But he couldn’t say that now, not when Buffy was warm and soft against him, still all agitated and trembling.

“Is that all?” he asked when she remained tense.

“I'm worried about Cordy," Buffy said quietly.

Spike nestled her up against him. "Who?"

"Cordelia."

"Who's Cordelia?" The name sounded familiar, but he couldn't recall her face.

"She's an ex-Scooby. Or, well, Scooby in absentia? She went to LA after graduation." Buffy frowned thoughtfully. “I thought you’d met her a time or two. Um, she was dressed as a cat on Halloween? Dated Xander?”

"Oh, that Cordelia." She’d been in his surveillance footage of Buffy back in the day.

"I don’t think you guys ever actually talked, though. Anyhow, she hasn’t been returning my calls for, like, a week."

"And you're worried." Spike stroked her hair.

"Yeah." Buffy bit her lip. "Can I just… talk about it for a bit? Cordy's, well, complicated, and I don't think the others would get it."

And so Spike listened as Buffy told him all about the mysterious Cordelia, who had been there all along -- enemy and friend, possessed of exquisite taste but now minimal funds, tormentor and supporter and confidante -- vaguely noting the light darkening as evening set in, and when Buffy finally got to the end, he kissed her on the forehead and then the lips.

"Can go pay her a visit, if you like. I'll drive."

Buffy blinked. "Your car is safe to drive on the highway? It's, like, almost as old as you."

"'Course I can drive it on the highway. Just because it's a classic doesn't mean it ain't reliable. How do you think I bloody got to Sunnydale? Can you feature me on a bloody Greyhound?"

She pouted, poking at his chest. "There's trains. And we have an airport. A little one."

"Bloody hell. Give me some credit for bloody style." Spike kissed her swiftly. "I'll bloody drive you to your friend's flat. Like to meet her in person. Be introduced."

"Really?"

He shrugged. "Met all the other bloody Scoobies, haven't I?" He stroked Buffy’s hair. "Feel better?"

"Yeah." And Buffy tilted her face up to his and he kissed her deeply, all the desire that had been simmering since her arrival bubbling up again.

“You smell fucking glorious,” he whispered against her lips.

“Make me smell better,” she whispered back.

She was still shaking, and he stroked her hair in an attempt to soothe, but then she clutched the lapels of his duster and lunged up to devour his mouth, all her agitation and concern transmuted into heat, and _bugger, _he fell into it like diving into an active volcano, stumbling back against the sarcophagus, clutching madly at her as they kissed, hands sliding up the back of her thighs under her skirt as she fumbled at his belt, lips still sliding desperately together and oh _god _she hadn’t any bloody knickers on, his hands curved around her bare arse and she freed his cock and wrestled her way up, dragging up her skirt, and then he was inside her, panting and heaving, just staring up at her like she was the sun.

“God, I love you,” he gasped.

She froze. “What?”

Bugger bugger _bugger_ bugger bugger bugger _bugger _what had he done? “I didn’t-- God, just fuck me, Buffy!”

“You said--”

“It’s the plan!” he babbled, desperate. “The bloody plan, you said it’s not working, we have to up the bloody ante. We have to-- I’m a bloody method actor! I’m just getting into bloody character!” God, not now, not _now_, he’d buggered it all up--

“The plan,” she whispered, and then nodded. “The plan. It’s just the plan.”

Spike buried his face in her breast. “God, just--” He broke off, groaning, as she started to rise and fall, riding him slowly, then faster.

“More,” she groaned, and he pushed off the sarcophagus, stumbling to the wall opposite, slamming her back against the stone, and she wrapped her legs around him, clutching at him, at the wall, at herself, and he gritted his teeth and fucked her harder, deeper, faster, until she was screaming out her release, and he screwed his eyes shut and drove into her until his own orgasm swept over him like the bloody apocalypse and his legs gave out and he fell to his knees, wrapping his arms around her, because god, it was over, it was over, and he wasn’t ready.

Unbelievably, Buffy hugged him right back, and he opened his eyes to look up at her, wary.

“You should warn a girl when you plan on, um, acting,” she whispered. “I wasn’t expecting that.”

He managed an awkward laugh. “That’s how method acting works, love. You have to, uh, go deep. Really live the part.”

“Right.” She closed her eyes and laid her head on his shoulder, and they knelt there together, still joined, until her heart rate had gone back to normal.

“So,” she said at last. “Patrol? And… and I got the movie you wanted from Blockbuster.”

“Patrol. Movie. Yeah.”

And they disengaged and cleaned up, the way they always did, and a bit later he said something that made her laugh, the way she always did, and all right. All right. It wasn’t over, not yet.

But there came another uninvited thought, like so many of his thoughts these days. His inner monologue was rapidly becoming an inner debate, desperately in need of a bloody moderator.

_I don’t bloody want this to end. I want to have this forever. I want it. But I can’t bloody have it. She won’t bloody have me, not forever. She bloody well can’t._

_This has got to end_.

*

Harmony ran through the night, weeping.

She’d been searching and searching for Spike’s stupid ring for weeks, checking every box in his room over and over again, under the bed, behind the furniture, everywhere she could imagine he would have put it. She’d searched his stupid car, searched his stupid clothes, even gone back and searched the stupid tunnel in case he’d put it back there for some stupid reason, and nothing.

Of course, she was only looking for the ring because she wanted to help her Blondie Bear. He obviously wasn’t strong enough to kill the slayer on his own, or he would have done it by now. Plus she’d been hearing really awful rumors about how Spike was killing other vampires now, and not just ones like Brian who could have been a danger to his plans. Just ordinary vampires out hunting and stuff, like vampires were supposed to. Maybe he’d been brainwashed. Maybe he needed her to rescue him!

So finally, in a fit of exasperation, she’d ordered Parker to follow Spike and see where he went when he wasn’t at the crypt. It was hard because Spike kept leaving when it was still daylight. (What was up with that? Didn’t he have any, like, pride in being a creature of the night?) Anyhow, Parker didn’t want to go out in the sunlight, because he was afraid of burning up, and so it had taken a while to get that plan going.

But Harmony had insisted, and Parker had eventually followed, and he’d finally come back the other night looking all superior and mean.

“I found out where he goes,” he’d said, snickering like something was really funny.

“And?”

“And you’re not going to like it,” he’d sing-songed.

“Whatever. Just show me.”

So he’d taken her out the next night, to a cemetery close to the university, and he’d shown her a crypt.

“Is he in there now?” Harmony had whispered.

“Go find out,” Parker had shrugged. “I found him like you wanted. I’m going to go get something to eat.”

Harmony didn’t even care that he probably meant finding some girl to have sex with before he killed her. He was the worst minion ever. Maybe later she’d be like Spike and stake Parker herself.

So she’d watched for a while, and been really, really quiet, and when she was pretty sure Spike wasn’t there, she went and took a peek in. And then she’d wished she hadn’t.

It had been all… all comfy, blankets and pillows and candles, and a heater, like Spike had settled in and made himself a new home. His stupid chains had been hanging on the wall, and he’d even had a change of clothes folded on the sarcophagus, and towels, and… and…

And it had smelled like sex.

She’d left right away, feeling sick.

Except later, she’d realized how stupid she was being. Maybe he had the gem there! She totally should have just gone on in and searched through all the stuff in there until she found the stupid gem, and then she could have, like, lain in wait until Spike came back and then she could have killed the slayer right in front of him, and he would have been so grateful to be rescued from being the slayer’s sex slave that he would have totally become Harmony’s sex slave. Right?

So tonight, just as soon as it was dark, she’d come to search.

Except this time when she arrived, she’d noticed that the door was just a teensy bit open, and she could hear voices, and when she snuck closer and peeked in… there they were. Spike and the slayer, and he was hugging her and petting her hair and being… being nice to her. Nice like he’d never been to Harmony. And it had just kept getting worse.

She’d listened as Buffy told Spike about how she was worried about Cordelia, and that was just too awful! Cordelia had been Harmony’s friend first! Harmony and Cordelia had been besties until Cordelia had gotten all geeky and stuff, and Harmony should be the one who got to worry about Cordelia now that she had dumped Buffy and her friends and gone to LA. Spike should be giving Harmony a ride in his stupid car!

And Spike had listened. He’d listened to everything Buffy had said, and he’d said more nice things, and he hadn’t told her to bugger off once.

And then Harmony had watched as Buffy and Spike just… just had sex. Buffy didn’t even, like, make Spike take her on a date first, or say nice things. She just climbed on up and _stuck_ herself on Harmony’s boyfriend! (Well, ex-boyfriend, but that was totally temporary.) Gross gross gross!

And_ then... _he said it.

He told the slayer he loved her.

He’d never told Harmony he’d loved her, not once. Not when he was trying to get sex out of her, not when he was trying to sweet-talk her into doing other stuff, not one single time. Harmony had been so good to him! She’d been, like, the best girlfriend ever! How was this fair?

It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair at all.

So as Harmony ran, she plotted her revenge.

She couldn’t kill Spike without the gem, or the slayer either, which sucked, and it would be hard to kill them even with the gem, so she probably didn’t want to even try just yet. He didn’t care who she had sex with, so she couldn’t get revenge that way, and he didn’t care about gossip, _obviously_, and he didn’t have a pet she could kill, and that stupid soccer team he liked was all the way in England, so none of those would work either.

What Spike did have was a lot of stuff.

Stuff she could burn.

She stormed into the lair and right up to his room -- nobody was there to stop her -- and she dragged his stupid red silk sheet off his stupid bed to hold everything and she started piling everything up, yelling with each thing she threw on the pile.

His clothes. “Stupid Spike and your stupid concert T-shirts! Nobody cares about the stupid Ramones!” She flung them all as hard as she could, though they all just kind of flopped, which was lame. It didn’t make her feel better at all.

His records. “Nobody listens to records any more now that we have CDs! Who cares about your stupid ‘first-press vinyl’ Sex Pistols album! And this one doesn’t even have any pictures or words, it’s just all white! How stupid is that? And who would ever listen to The Wiz?!” Those were more satisfying -- she could hear them cracking and shattering as they hit the stone floor.

His videotapes. “You’re never going to get to watch episode one of Passions ever again!” She ripped some of the tape out of the inside before throwing those on the pile, just because.

His books. “Stupid poetry! Stupid Latin! Stupid--” She looked at the title of the last one. “Stupid _Principles of Geotechnical Engineering, Third Edition_! Nobody cares!”

She froze at the metallic tinkle that followed the thud of that book hitting the pile.

Hardly daring to believe it was true, she tiptoed around the pile of Spike’s stupidity, scanning the floor, until -- there, in the corner! A gleam of gold and green. She knelt down and picked it up, holding her breath as she turned it over and over, watching it shine in the light, and then she slipped it on her finger, and… she felt it. A rush of energy tingling through her. She reached out and grabbed one of the shards of shattered records, biting her lip as she dragged the sharp edge across her fingertip, and when the cut instantly closed and healed, she smiled.

“Now we’ll see who’s the Big Bad.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edited 5/22/20 to fix a minor continuity error - Thanks to ScarlettDuck on EF for catching it!


	17. Chapter 17

The first thing Harmony did was make sure everyone knew she was in charge now.

She had to start with Parker, terrible minion that he was, because he was the only one who would even listen to her at all. So as soon as he got back from screwing and eating the night's co-ed, she dared him to stake her.

It was annoying how happy he was to try, but whatever. She was going to dust him anyhow, just as soon as she had her power all consolidated and stuff. And when she did, she was totally going to tell him all her orgasms had been faked, even the ones that hadn’t, so he would go into oblivion with the knowledge he was a terrible lover, and a terrible minion, and a terrible vampire. That would serve him right for being so mean to her.

So she let him stake her a few times -- it hurt, but she was totally evil enough to laugh at pain -- and then she grabbed him by the throat.

"Are you ever going to cheat on me again?"

"N-no?" He'd actually looked scared. It felt awesome.

"Good. Now, here's what you're going to do."

And so by the time Spike's minions started coming home, she had a nice dramatic throney setup on a platform, draped with Spike's red silk sheets, and she was sitting in it like a queen -- no, a goddess, all dressed in sexy black leather, with a riding crop and a tiara. (She didn't want to have to use the riding crop, because _ew_, but she didn't have a scepter, and goddesses totally needed to accessorize.)

They all ignored her.

So she made Parker go and drag Kenny up on the platform, and she dared _him _to stake her.

He laughed and staked her, and then she laughed and ripped off his head. It took a few tries, and he staked her, like, three more times while she was trying to get a good grip on his ears, but by the time she had the hang of it, at least ten of the minions were watching.

“Yeah, that’s right,” she sniffed as Kenny’s dust settled to the ground. “I killed Kenny. Who wants to try and stake me next?”

They started forming a line, and she let each of them stake her before she dusted them, and when she’d dusted a dozen or so, the long line had mysteriously vanished, and she had a whole huge crowd of minions gathered around her throne, staring at her all worshippy like they should have from the start, if Spike hadn’t been such a jerk. She totally deserved all this adulation and fear, and Spike should have made sure she had it.

Except once she had them all staring at her, she panicked. What was she supposed to do now?

She was in charge now. She was the Big Bad. She had already figured out that she was going to demand, like, pedicures and massages and spa treatments, but she also needed to do stuff that was, well, _bad_. So what did Big Bads do?

Spike mostly listened to bad music and watched bad TV, so that was out, but she thought back on what she’d heard since she was turned, all the stuff that had gone on in the past couple of years, all the bad things that had happened, and that’s what gave her the most awesome idea ever.

She clapped her hands, and all the minions looked at her fearfully. “Okay, guys! New plan! Let’s start an apocalypse!”

They started whispering to each other uneasily.

“How?” one of them finally asked.

“How?” Harmony thought fast. She didn’t have any idea how apocalypses were started, she just knew that they were a thing that Big Bads did. But you know what? She was at the top, now. She was the visionary, the one responsible for the big picture. She didn’t have to worry about _details_. “Well obviously that’s what I want all of you to do. Go forth, my darling minions! Find out how to start an apocalypse! And whoever brings me back the best plan, uh, gets to… gets to not get staked.” She sat down on her red-draped throne, preening under their rapt attention. (Okay, so it wasn’t a throne, it was just a chair with Spike’s sheets draped over it, but Parker had done a really awesome job making it look super dramatic. And she looked good in red.)

When they still stood around uneasily, she clapped her hands again. “What are you all waiting for? Go!”

They scurried off, like little ants, and she gestured graciously to Parker, who obligingly knelt at her feet in worship.

Yeah. It was good to be the queen-- uh, the Big Bad.

It was good to be the Big Bad.

And Spike could kiss her Big Bad behind.

*

Buffy left Spike sleeping in her bed, blackout curtains drawn tight, while she pretended to go to class. She knew her mom wouldn’t approve of her skipping, but she’d sat down and figured out that the ding for attendance wouldn’t affect her grades at this point as long as she did okay on the finals, and she really needed some advice. Cordelia wasn’t available, and Willow wasn’t the right person to ask about this at all, based on their conversation yesterday, and so she’d figured out the absolute best third alternate.

Which is why she was knocking on Anya’s apartment door.

After a bit, Anya’s voice came from inside. “Read the sign! It says _No Solicitors_! That includes Jehovah’s Witnesses, insurance salesmen, Church of Satan, Girl Scouts and those cursed addictive cookies, and Bright Blessed Disciples of Bright Blessed Br’Shagk!”

“I’m not a solicitor or a Girl Scout,” Buffy said, pitching her voice to carry through the door. “It’s Buffy.”

The deadbolt thunked and the door opened a crack, Anya glaring at her through the narrow space. “Are you here to slay me?”

“No. I just, um, want some… girl talk.”

“Oh.” Anya rolled her eyes, clearly annoyed. “Well, I guess you can come in, since I didn’t think to put that on the sign. I’ll have to fix that later.”

There was a clink and rattle of multiple chains, and the door opened, Anya glaring at her.

“Don’t expect coffee,” she said ungraciously. “I have a really tight budget.”

Buffy stepped inside, looking around curiously. She’d never been to Anya’s place, though Anya had handed her a card with the address at Thanksgiving. “For holiday cards,” she’d said meaningfully. “I expect them to be postmarked before Christmas, because otherwise I’ll know you don’t actually care enough to do the barest minimum social courtesy.” The living room was neat, and exquisitely decorated, if a bit on the spartan side, and had absolutely no hints of personality at all, except for a huge framed photo of Anya and Xander from Prom.

Buffy seated herself gingerly on the clean white sofa. “How are things?” she started cautiously.

“Oh, all right,” Anya shrugged. “Xander finally decided I’m his girlfriend, which means we can finally move on to fifth base. You?”

“What’s fifth base?”

Anya raised her eyebrows. “You don’t know the six bases? What did they teach you in your sex ed classes?”

“Not much,” Buffy muttered, then sighed. “Um, I need some advice.”

Anya’s demeanor visibly changed, her face brightening eagerly. “Really? You’re actually asking me to share the wisdom of my thousand-plus years of life? Because I can tell you, I have some doozies.”

“Uh, I guess so?”

Anya sat down next to Buffy. “First of all, never ever trust a man who says you’re great because you’re different from all the other girls. Guys who say that almost always bear a burden of deep-seated misogyny, and--”

“No,” Buffy interrupted. “I need… kinda more specific advice.” Though thinking back, that was advice she could have used a couple years ago.

“Oh.” Anya blinked. “Well, I’ve never had sex with a vampire, but I have heard some things, so--”

“It’s not about sex, either.”

Anya huffed in annoyance. “Well, you’re just going to have to actually ask something, then. I’m not a mindreader.”

“Okay. Um.” Buffy bit her lip. “So, I think Spike might think he’s in love with me.”

“Okay. Why do you think that?”

“Because he said it.”

Anya rolled her eyes. “Seriously? Why are you even here? Go away.”

“No, listen.” Buffy heaved a deep breath. “So he said it. And then he acted like he didn’t mean it, but he’s… a pretty bad liar. I’m pretty sure he meant it.”

“And?” Anya glared at Buffy expectantly.

“And he doesn’t have a soul, so he can’t be in love with me, he _can’t_, so why does he think he is?” Buffy said, all in a rush, before she could chicken out.

Anya blinked in confusion. “What do you mean, he doesn’t have a soul?” Her face cleared. “Oh. you mean a _human _soul.”

“Well, yeah. Of course.”

Anya patted her shoulder reassuringly. “Don’t worry, then. He has a perfectly good demon soul to love you with. You can leave now.”

“Wait. What?”

“He has a demon soul.” When Buffy just kept staring at her, Anya got visibly irritated. “What, didn’t Giles ever teach you about souls at all? Everything has a soul. Humans, demons, very small rocks. It’s what holds our identities.”

“Rocks have souls?”

“Well, they’re very small souls. They pretty much have enough energy to be like, _rock_, and that’s it. But everything that exists has an energy that makes it what it is. I know humans like to be all, oh, we invented souls, our souls are the best, but that’s pretty much provably false. I mean, if you had to compare, say, Jeffrey Dahmer, and Mount Everest, which do you think has a more awesome soul?”

“Mount Everest... has a soul?”

“Well, of course. And demons have souls, too.”

“Oh.” That was… basically the total opposite of everything she’d ever been taught.

Anya went on, oblivious to Buffy’s turmoil. “Vampires are kind of different, though. They’re a hybrid between human and demon, so they have elements of the human soul, from before they were turned, and then they have elements of the demon that turned them. There’s a part of the human soul that goes away, the part that holds the conscience, because it can’t easily coexist with the demon, but vampires still keep that hybrid soul, or else they’d just stop existing.”

“But Angel--”

“Got cursed with that part that doesn’t like to coexist, obviously. It got brought back and stuck in him, and that’s why he’s so miserable. Come on. This is Metaphysics 101 here.”

“Okay.” Buffy took a deep breath. “So you’re telling me demons have souls, and so… Spike really does love me?”

“Well. I can’t say that for sure. You’d have to ask him.”

“But… how can he love if he’s not… human?”

“Oh, so humans have an exclusive contract on love, too?” Anya sounded mad now.

“No! Um, I mean, I’m sure demons… it just doesn’t feel like it could be real love.”

“And you’re the expert on what love is?”

“No, but--”

Anya stood abruptly and walked over to her door, opening it. “I think maybe you need to leave.”

“Wait.” Buffy stood awkwardly. “I didn’t mean to offend you. I’m just talking about, you know, demons.”

“Well, if I’d realized you only thought human souls counted, I would never have invited you in. You can leave now.”

“What? But… you’re human.”

“I have a human body, but I still have the soul of a vengeance demon,” Anya said patiently. “It’s not like D’Hoffryn gave me my old soul back when he fired me.”

“You don’t--”

Anya kept on. “He didn’t even give me two weeks severance pay. If I hadn’t set aside some priceless artifacts I could hock, I’d’ve been up a creek. As it is, I need to get a job if I want to maintain my standard of living. I’ve been considering either real estate sales or multi-level marketing, as long as I can be at the top level of the pyramid. I may have to hire some assassins.”

Buffy raised her hands defensively. “I’m sorry, Anya. I’m sorry. I didn’t realize I was being, um, human-centric.”

Anya sniffed. “Most humans are. I’ve been trying to train it out of Xander, but he’s pretty set in his beliefs. If he wasn’t so good at oral sex, I’d have dumped him way before fifth base.”

Oh, that was a factoid Buffy was not going to touch. “So you’re saying Spike loves me.”

Anya glared. “I’m saying demons love just fine, thank you very much, and whether Spike loves you is up to him. I don’t presume to dictate or explain someone else’s emotions.”

“All right, then.” Buffy’s mind was still whirling, but she hadn’t even got to the big part of what had her so worried. “What about me?”

“What about you?”

“I’ve been thinking…. Well, I’ve been feeling… weird.”

That perked up Anya’s interest. “Weird, how? Dizziness? Vomiting? Weeping pustules?”

“Weird… emotionally. Kind of shaky, and sick, and… and I can’t stop thinking about Spike, and… what’s wrong with me?”

Anya’s eyes narrowed. “Okay. Answer me this. If Spike were a human -- or if he had that piece of human soul that you think is so important -- what would you think you were feeling?”

Buffy flushed. “I would think... I was in love. But I can’t be.”

“Why not?”

“I can’t be in love with Spike,” Buffy insisted, feeling herself start to panic. “He’s a vampire. He’s everything I’m supposed to hate, everything I’m supposed to fight. I can’t be in love with him.”

“Well, that’s stupid.” Anya folded her arms. “Of course you can.”

“I _can’t._”

“Buffy, have you applied the duck test?”

Buffy frowned. “Is that the one where we put a duck on one side of the scale, and Spike on the other, and see if they weigh the same?”

“No. That’s from that stupid movie Xander likes so much even though it is completely historically inaccurate. Except for the bunny scene, that’s so accurate it’s terrifying. Anyhow, the duck test is where you look at something, at what it’s like, and figure out what it is logically based on its features. The saying goes, _if it looks like a duck, swims like a duck, and quacks like a duck, then it probably is a duck._”

Buffy took a deep breath. “So what you’re saying is--”

“What I’m saying is, you need to stop telling yourself what it _can’t be_, and look at what it _is_. If it feels like love, then that’s what it probably is. You’re the only one who gets to decide how you feel, so decide already.”

Buffy thought, and she considered, and she explored the weird feelings in the pit of her stomach, all while Anya was standing by the open door, tapping her foot, and in the end, Buffy closed her eyes.

_Oh, god. I’m in love with Spike._

“We have a truce,” Buffy said quietly, poking carefully around her sore emotions like she needed an emotional root canal. “We’re working together to get revenge on Angel, and when we do that, Spike’s going to leave.”

“Is he?” Anya shrugged. “Well, that sounds like a stupid truce, but you can always try to renegotiate.”

“I… I guess so."

“You should have come to me in the first place,” Anya went on. “I have more experience at vengeance than anyone else you know. More than a thousand years. Even without my powers, I could have come up with a more workable plan that what you seem to have going, from the lack of actual vengeance results. If I’d been handling your case, you would never have fallen in love with Spike, and then you wouldn’t be here interrupting my peaceful afternoon of job-hunting. I’m studying for my real estate license.”

“Oh.”

Anya smiled cheerily. “That is my subtle way of telling you should leave now. Except this time it’s not because I’m mad at you for being offensive. It’s just because I need to study.”

Buffy stood. “All right then. Um, thank you.”

“What are friends for?” Anya said like it was a line she’d memorized, which it probably was.

“Yeah.” Buffy walked over to Anya and gave her a quick hug. “Thank you.”

Anya hugged her back awkwardly. “Buffy, can… can I ask you for advice now? Since we’re having girl talk.”

Buffy laughed, stepping back. “Yeah. Though I don’t know how helpful I’m going to be.”

Anya bit her lip. “Do you think Xander could fall in love with a demon soul?” She shrugged awkwardly. “I mean, I just don’t want to waste his-- my time if he’s only into humans.”

After a moment’s hesitation, Buffy nodded. “I think…. Yeah. I think he could.”

Anya smiled then, a soft smile, a real smile, a smile Buffy would never have dreamed wasn’t human. “Thank you.”

Buffy walked out the open door, listening to it shut behind her, the chains and deadbolt, and she didn’t stop, just kept on walking, through the apartment courtyard and down the street, feet automatically taking her towards home. Towards Spike.

The vampire she loved.

Oh god, she was so screwed.

*

Spike woke abruptly, disoriented, nearly leaping from the bed before he recognized the slope of the ceiling, the striped wallpaper that matched Buffy's eyes, the white iron bed frame, and he sank back into the Buffyless bed, letting his eyes drift closed. The room was awash in their mingled scents, with an undertone of just Buffy, and he wished he could just... never leave.

Thank god Buffy had bought his little coverup. He'd been terrified the jig was up, because no matter how they'd renegotiated their truce, he was very certain love would be a deal breaker. But then again, he did have more than a century's experience as a liar. He shouldn't have worried so. Of course she’d believed him. She’d kept fucking him, hadn’t she? Fucked him and patrolled with him and then when they’d come home to Revello Drive she hadn’t even bothered with the movie they’d planned, just dragged him upstairs and fucked him again, and then this morning she’d kissed him awake for another quick sleepy bout before she’d left for the university and he'd dozed off again. She wouldn’t have fucked him three times if she suspected he truly loved her, would she?

He sighed and slung himself out of the bed. Somewhere in the middle of all the fucking, Buffy had also elicited his promise to tidy up for her mother’s return, and he supposed he might as well get started on that now, just in case she wanted to fuck yet again upon her return. Joyce wasn’t due in until the evening, they’d have plenty of time to sully some part of the house and then clean it up again as long as they started with a clean house to begin with.

So he dressed -- all the way to his duster, because if he was going to wield a vacuum he was bloody well going to look the Big Bad doing it -- and he straightened and vacuumed and washed the bloody dishes, set the bins by the back door for when the sun was down, and started on the dusting, entertaining himself by considering the erotic possibilities of the feather duster. Perhaps he should see if there was a frilly apron somewhere, switch over to the naked-under-apron look, see what that inspired in Buffy’s imagination.

But just as he was about to start rummaging in the kitchen for said apron, he heard the front door open, and he stepped into the hall just as she came in the door, her eyes flying to him immediately. Her face was somber, and she just looked at him for a long moment, lips parted.

“How was today’s lecture?” he inquired when she showed no sign of speaking.

“Educational,” she said.

“Then I suppose Joyce is getting her money’s worth.”

“That’s debatable, given the cost of tuition.” Buffy turned away to set her backpack by the door. “How’s the cleaning going?”

“Done, except for the laundry and taking out the trash.”

She turned her gaze back to him again, expression unreadable. “You really did all of it?”

He rolled his eyes. “Promised I would, didn’t I? But don’t worry, I did it as evilly as possible.”

Buffy laughed awkwardly. “I just bet you did.” She looked away again. “Um, we should talk.”

“About what?” he asked warily.

“About… about how our vengeance isn’t going according to plan.”

He strode down the hall, taking her hands in his. “There’s naught to worry about, love. I’m sure someone will crack and notify Angel any day now.”

Buffy raised her eyes to his again, face bleak. “Spike, we have to finish this. It’s gone on too long already.”

“It has,” he agreed, keeping his voice neutral. “We’ll finish it. And then… then we can go back to being enemies.” God, it was a good thing he was such a brilliant liar, spouting such ridiculous untruths. Like he could ever be her enemy again. “I’ll leave town and you can go on with saving the bloody world.”

She smiled then, wryly. “Yeah. That’s what I’ll do, all right.” She raised his hands to her lips then, kissing his knuckles. Her eyes lifted to his, intense. “We have a few hours until Mom’s flight lands. Take me upstairs.”

So he drew her up the stairs and into her room, closing the door and setting her back to it.

“Bed’s over there,” she laughed.

“You’re over here,” he murmured.

“You’re incorrigible.”

“That I am.” He grinned and ducked down to kiss her throat -- and yelped when his forehead collided with her chin. Buffy hissed in pain.

"Bugger!" Spike pulled back, stroking her chin. "Sorry, love."

She laughed, eyes bright with quick tears. "Oops. Thought you were going north, not south."

He grinned. "I always go bloody south." He kissed the red spot on her chin.

"Yeah, but sometimes you go north first."

"It's called misdirection. Bloody Strategy 101."

"Well, excuse me for not fitting that important seminar into my curriculum," she sniped.

"All right, then. May I bloody go south, then?"

She looked at him seriously. "Not yet. Kiss me more."

And so he kissed her breathless, until he felt her hands going to the hem of his shirt, and then he went to kiss her forehead and his chin whacked her nose as she went up at the same time and this time they both swore before bursting into laughter.

"I thought you were south and I was north that time!" Buffy pinched the bridge of her nose. "Ugh, is my nose bleeding?"

Spike kissed the very tip of her nose, that little wedge he knew she hated but he fucking adored. "Not a lick. Tragically."

She rolled her eyes. "Gross."

"What? It's blood." He set his hands to her cheeks for safety as he kissed her forehead. "You're distracted, love."

She sighed. "I am. Maybe I should lie down before somebody gets hurt."

"Too bloody late for that," Spike said drily, drawing her back to the bed. “Want to talk it out, love?”

“No! Um, it’s not-- talking isn’t going to help. Maybe just… hold me?”

“If you insist,” Spike breezed, trying not to weep at the sweetness with which she held out her arms. He toed off his boots and slid onto the bed beside her, into her arms.

She sighed. “This is nice.”

“It bloody well is not,” Spike growled. “You know I’m--”

“Not nice. Yeah. Got that memo. But it’s… comfy? Are you comfy?”

Spike sniffed. “Suppose I can be comfy.”

“Okay. Thanks. So this is comfy.” Buffy sat up a bit, shoving at his duster. "Let's get naked. I still want to fuck, even though I'm super-klutz right now."

"No arguments here." Spike grinned deliberately, wriggling his arms out of the leather. He draped his duster off to the side, mindful of the pocket with the photo.

Buffy looked at him for a long moment, face troubled, and then she grinned wryly and pushed at his red button-down. "Why do you wear so many layers?"

"Love to make you work for it, pet."

"Asshole." She wriggled out of her own shirt.

“Bitch.” God, Buffy's matter-of-fact _I still want to fuck_ had worked him to a dizzying fever of arousal already, and there was something blazingly erotic about the way she was just… getting naked, no coyness at all, no show, just _let's get naked_ like it was the most natural thing in the world, and somehow it was. When they were both bare in the dimness, he curved his hand around her cheek. "Feel better?" God, he was shaking.

"Yeah."

Spike lunged towards Buffy to press her down into the mattress, because it was damn well time to _go south_, except she lunged at the same time and their skulls cracked together with blinding force. He fell back into the pillows, swearing, Buffy collapsing next to him.

When he could see again, he started to laugh.

Buffy joined in. "God, it's a good thing we're not on patrol now. We'd be like the Three-- well, Two Stooges." She rolled to face him, propped up on her elbow, and he mirrored her.

"Perhaps we need a compass," he said seriously.

"Or a map," she giggled.

He stroked down her shoulder, her breast, her trembling belly. "Don't need a map to find this treasure." The slick heat of her against his fingers never stopped surprising him. So bloody fantastic.

She hiked her knee up, opening with a sigh, and slid her own hand down to curl it around his cock. "X marks the spot," she murmured, and she slid closer and angled her hips and he hooked his hand behind her knee, wrapping it around his hip, and with a tilt and a thrust he was sliding inside her, his elbow sliding under to pillow her head as she wriggled her arms around him, until there, they were all pressed together lying on their sides, pulsing, lips brushing together in breathless nibbled kisses, and god, the look in her eyes, the way her hair gleamed in the soft light that filtered around the edges of the curtains, and he pulsed and pulsed and suddenly realized that he didn’t always have to make love to her in shadows, candlelight and lamps and indirect sunlight, he could have her in the sun, he had the Gem of Amara, he could pull open the curtains and see the sun in her hair, playing over her breasts as she rode him, he could have it, it could be his, sunlit Buffy could be _his_, and the thought made him dizzy and urgent, he hooked her knee with his hand again, opening her wider for his thrusts but it wasn't enough, he needed to be deeper, harder, and he rolled and shifted, feeling like he was falling--

Oh, bugger, he _was_ falling, tumbling off the bed, taking Buffy with him, landing hard on his back, head barely missing her bedside table.

"Are you okay?" Buffy gasped, but he thrust back into her, growling, and she laughed, body convulsing with mirth even as she matched his rhythm again, and then they rolled again, scrabbling at each other, and he was laughing now, too, because god, he was a disaster, so mindless with love and lust and just plain insanity that he could hardly control his flopping limbs and yet they were still fucking, the fits and starts making every thrust more incandescent and Buffy arched her back, legs convulsing as she came, and he rolled her again, they were up against the wall and he plunged into her over and over again, not deep enough, never deep enough and his head was hitting the wall now with every thrust but he didn't bloody care and Buff laughed and wrapped her legs around his waist and grabbed his head to kiss him sloppily and he swore as ecstasy took over his whole bloody body, leaving him shaky and spent and he shuddered and tenderly bit his way along the line of her shoulder, still throbbing and jerking with aftershocks.

Her hands were soothing on his back and he lifted his head and looked her in the eyes and _god, I love you_, he thought, but he couldn't bloody say it. Bugger bugger _bugger_. He couldn't say it. Not again.

Not until they were free of the bloody buggering _plan_.

She looked at him silently for a long time, lips parted like she was about to speak, but then her eyes slid away and she laughed awkwardly.

"See, I told you," she said lightly, voice ragged. "The Two Stooges."

He laughed as well, rubbing his nose against hers. "Could be Laurel and Hardy, argue about who's on first."

She stroked his back. "Abbott and Costello?"

"Penn and Teller." He nibbled on her throat again, needing to feel her skin beneath his teeth.

She giggled softly, kissing the top of his head. "They do magic, dumbass."

He tilted up and kissed her quivering lips. "So do we. We don't always bloody pratfall." He grinned. "And even when we do, we're bloody magic."

She snorted out another laugh, and he laughed with her, rolling again so she was draped across him. She pushed herself up, looking down at him with such soft eyes he wanted to weep.

"Spike, I--" She bit her lip, glancing over her shoulder. "I think I have rug burn on my butt."

He pouted up at her. "Is that all? I think I may have fractured my bloody skull."

"Not stopping you from yapping, is it?"

"Kiss it and make it better," he purred.

And so she kissed his head and he kissed her chin and she kissed his rug-burned knees and he rolled her over onto her belly and kissed all over her back, all the rug-burned bits and everywhere in between and while he was at it he spread her legs wide and kissed her sweet quim until she was shaking and then pulled her up on her knees and slid his cock into her and _see, magic_, he whispered as he fucked her, and she laughed and said _see, rug burn_, and so he heaved her back up to her bed to finish on the smooth, cool sheets, and fuck if Buffy's kisses didn't make everything better after all.

He was still thinking about it later that evening, after Joyce had returned and they'd bloody eaten together and watched a movie and Joyce had discreetly excused herself with a farewell even though she knew damn well Spike wasn't leaving, that he'd be sleeping in Buffy's bed. He kept thinking and kept thinking and kept thinking, and when Buffy was finally fast asleep he slipped out of her arms and slipped on his trousers and padded downstairs.

It only took him a few moments to find the number, written in Buffy's bubbly handwriting in the planner next to the phone. He dialed it grimly, jaw set.

It rang four times, then connected.

"Buffy?"

Spike smiled. "Hullo, Angel."

There was a moment of stunned silence, then a growl. "Spike! What are you doing in Buffy's house?"

Spike leaned against the wall, trying to project insouciance in his voice even though he felt bloody ill. "You didn't make the family reunion this year. Thought you'd appreciate an update."

"It's two in the morning! Did Drusilla dump you again? Did you trick Joyce into letting you in?”

“Drusilla’s well. She’s moved on to another species, but she seemed to be enjoying it last I saw her. Darla’s still dead, of course. Haven’t heard from any of your other wayward children of late, but I’m sure they’ll pop up when they feel like it.” Spike took a deep breath. “Oh, and I’ve been shagging the slayer.”

Another long silence. “What did you say?”

No sense being subtle. “I’m fucking Buffy. Every bloody day.”

Angel started to laugh. “Wow. That’s, um, quite the story. Too bad I don’t believe you.”

Bloody hell. “It’s true, you twat. She always scream when she comes? Or was that just for me?”

“Buffy’s not the type of girl to scream. Or to have sex with you in the first place.” Angel was still laughing.

“She screams if you do it _right_, you bloody--”

“And here I was worried. What, did you get some techno-warlock to cast a spell to switch the caller ID? I bet you’re not even in Sunnydale.”

Spike gritted his teeth. “I’m not bloody lying. I’m in the Slayer’s house. We just shagged. She’s all naked in her beddy-bye waiting for me to come shag her again. What the bloody hell is wrong with you? Don’t you want to come kill me?”

“I would, if I thought it was true,” Angel snickered. “But seriously? This is the stupidest lie you’ve ever told.”

“You bloody pillock! What bloody details do you need? The gorgeous red splotches she gets on her chest when she comes? The way she loves having her ears nibbled on? How her bloody quim tastes like the bloody Aegean Ocean? I’ve been putting it to Buffy for bloody weeks. Fucking come and get me.”

“You can’t even get the details right,” Angel said sternly. “I’m not falling for your tricks. This is some trap, isn’t it?”

Holy fuck. “You never bloody even made her come, did you? You bastard.”

“Our love is none of your damn business. But you have no idea what Buffy’s like in bed.”

Spike would almost feel sorry for Angel, if he weren’t such a bellend. “So you’re not coming to Sunnydale.”

“I’m not walking into a trap just because you cooked up a ridiculous lie. I have plenty to deal with right here.”

“Look, you have to get your bloody arse down here. Buffy needs to move on.”

“That’s why I left. She understands that even though she’s my destiny, we just can’t be together now.”

“So you’re keeping her on the string with talk of destiny. That’s not letting her move on. How long till the next time you remind her you exist?”

“I’m staying away for her own good.”

“No, you’re bloody running away, like the selfish berk you’ve always been.” Spike clenched the phone receiver so hard he was surprised it didn’t break. “You really are a piece of work, you know that? You fucked Dru over, you fucked me over, you fucked your own bloody sire over, and now you've gone and fucked over the woman you claim is your destined one true love. When are you ever going to claim responsibility for your own bloody actions, you pompous, egotistical, lying, hypocritical bastard?”

Angel sighed. “Whatever, Spike. I’m not falling for it. Nice try, though. If I’d been an idiot, you might’ve had me.”

The phone disconnected.

Spike managed not to throw the phone through the living room window. Joyce didn’t deserve that, no matter how much Spike needed to hit something. He hung it up carefully instead, walked into the kitchen, and poured himself a glass of the whiskey Joyce had bought him, and then once he'd tossed it back he walked up the stairs to Buffy’s bedroom, slipped off his trousers, and slid beneath the covers.

Buffy snuggled up to him, even in her sleep, murmuring unintelligibly. He wrapped his arms around her automatically, kissing her forehead.

Bugger.

Bugger bugger bugger.

What now?

*

When she was sure her mom was occupied in the kitchen making breakfast and Spike was occupied showering upstairs -- funny how her mom was declining to comment on that! -- Buffy slipped into the living room and dialed Cordelia’s number. She didn’t really expect to get anything but an answering machine again, she was sure she was on her own for this one, but… just in case.

The phone rang only twice before going through.

“Hello?”

Buffy’s legs nearly gave out from relief. “Cordelia? It’s Buffy.”

“Hey, Buffy.” Cordelia sounded tired. “Sorry I haven’t returned your call. Calls. I’ve just been… it’s been rough.”

“I’m sorry. Um, do you want to--”

“Buffy, I want to apologize.”

Buffy blinked. “For not calling me back?”

Cordelia laughed. Or was it a sob? “No, for… god, for being so terrible, practically the whole time I’ve known you. I mean, I’ve always prided myself on telling it like it is, and I don’t want to let that go, but I know I was… well, just plain mean a lot of the time. And you hardly even got any of it. I need to apologize to Xander, and Willow, and, um, Jonathan, and Harmony, and… and everyone. I look back, and all I see is me being mean to people, and I have to apologize, I have to apologize to everybody, because… because I can’t apologize to him.” Cordelia broke off the rush of words with another sound, and yeah, that was a sob all right.

Buffy gentled her voice as much as she could. “Who, Cordelia?”

“Doyle. God. I told you about Doyle, right?”

“Your co-worker?”

“Yeah. That’s the guy.” Cordelia laughed this time, definitely a laugh, but a bitter one. “See, I wasn’t even sure I’d ever told you his name. Or even talked about him.”

Buffy didn’t think it would be the right time to mention that Cordelia had always spoken about this Doyle with disdain and annoyance. “What happened?”

“He’s dead, Buffy.” Cordelia heaved a deep breath. “He’s dead and I can’t ever apologize for being such a bitch.”

“Oh, god. Cordelia, I’m so sorry.”

“I still kind of want to punch him, because he gave me a really crappy good-bye present, but… I can’t even do that.”

“Cordelia….” Buffy twisted the phone cord in her fingers, reluctant to even go into her own problems. They just seemed so… small, now.

But Cordelia heaved another deep breath. “Okay. Okay. It was good to get that out. Now, what was it you needed to ask me about?”

“I don’t want to, um… not when you’re all--”

“No, this is good. This is good. Doing something positive for a friend is good. Just, um, if you talk to Xander or Willow, tell them they might get a phone call from me over the next week. I’m going in alphabetical order. I was going to call you today, just as soon as I finished the A’s.”

“Um, okay.” Buffy heaved her own deep breath. “So, I think... William... might be in love with me.”

“I already figured that out. And?”

“And I think I’m in love with him back.”

“Buffy, that’s great!”

“No, no, it’s not great. It’s terrible!”

“No,” Cordelia said patiently. “It’s great.”

“Cordelia, I’m in too deep. I need it to end. I need Angel to come down here, so we can finish this and… and go our separate ways.”

“What the hell are you talking about? Are you telling me you’re so hung up on Angel you can’t even let yourself love?”

“No, that’s not it. I--” Buffy let out a sob of her own. “I just need to finish. I need Angel to come down, because I can’t keep going like this.” And god, she was crying now, as quietly as she could because her mom was just a hallway away, but she had to let it out.

Cordelia was silent for a long time, listening to her cry. “Buffy,” she said at last, “there’s something else I have to apologize for.”

Buffy wiped her nose on her sleeve, not caring that it was gross. She could change after. “Okay. I can… you can apologize.”

“I’ve been lying to you about my boss.”

“What about him?” Buffy sat up suddenly. “Cordelia, are you okay? You don’t have some, um, creepy gross job, or--”

“No, the job is just what I said it was. Possibly a little less glamorous, but it’s a normalish job. It’s just, um, my boss.” Cordelia sighed. “Buffy, my boss is Angel.”

“Your boss is an angel?” Crap, maybe all the stress had sent Cordy round the bend.

“No! My boss is _Angel._ The Angel. Your Angel.”

Buffy floundered for a bit before she was able to reply. “He’s not my Angel. Not anymore.”

“No. He’s not.”

Buffy clutched at the phone, mind reeling. “Cordelia, why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because! You were doing such a good job of moving on, and you were so happy with William. I thought if I kept bringing up Angel, it would just make it harder on you.”

“But you didn’t tell him. Why didn’t you tell him?”

“Well, duh! I didn’t want your plan to succeed. I didn’t want him to come down and break you and William up!” She paused. “Plus, um… I kind of… no, that’s not important.”

Buffy closed her eyes. “Cordelia, you have to tell him.”

“He doesn’t need to know! You can keep dating William, and just forget about the revenge, right?”

“No. I need him to know.” Buffy sighed. “You have to tell him, because William is Spike.”

“Spike? Spike Lee? Spike Milligan? Please tell me not Spike Milligan, ugh--”

“No, _Spike._ Spike the vampire.”

Cordelia gasped. “Wait, you mean almost-ate-Princess-Buffy, summoned-creepy-bug-assassin, locked-Xander-and-Willow-up-to-cheat-on-me Spike?

“I don’t think the cheating-on-you was his goal, but yeah. That Spike.”

“Oh my god. Oh. My. God.”

“We… we made a truce. A truce to get revenge on Angel. And it wasn’t supposed to be like this. We were just going to make out enough that Angel could smell it on me, and then Angel was supposed to come down, revenge revenge revenge, and Spike would leave town.” Buffy laughed shortly. “I wasn’t supposed to fall in love. It’s too much. Cordelia, you have to tell him. Tell Angel that I’m having sex with Spike. Get him to come down here, so this can end.”

“I… I will. I’ll tell him. I promise.”

“Thank you,” Buffy whispered, feeling shattered all of a sudden.

“Buffy,” Cordelia said, voice quiet. “I’m having a little trouble wrapping my brain around this, but… all the stuff you told me about William. Was it true?”

“It was true.” Buffy snorted. “I cut out some bits that were too vampirey, but everything I said was true.”

“Then I think… I think maybe you shouldn’t let this end.”

“Cordelia, it has to.”

“You know, Doyle wasn’t human,” Cordelia said abruptly. “Well, he was half human, but the other half was demon. So I don’t know where that places him officially as far as having a soul, but there’s a fifty-fifty chance he didn’t. You know?”

Buffy didn’t want to bring up Anya’s soul lecture just now, so she just nodded. “Mm-hmm.”

“He probably didn’t have a soul,” Cordelia said softly. “But it didn’t stop him from being heroic. He died to save a whole bunch of other demons from dying. Doyle died a hero.”

“Cordelia, I--”

“And I have a soul,” Cordelia said, voice growing loud again. “I’m one-hundred-percent human -- or I was -- but I did all those terrible things with my soul. My soul didn’t stop me from tormenting other kids all the way from kindergarten to graduation.”

“What do you mean, was?”

“My soul didn’t stop me from being a bully,” Cordelia went on firmly. “Doyle’s lack of soul didn’t stop him from being a hero. And you said Spike was in love with you. He didn’t get stopped by not having a soul. We all get what we get in life. Some of us get more, and some get less. But that doesn’t mean someone can’t change. It doesn’t mean they can’t choose to be something more. And I have to believe it’s never too late for that. I have to believe... it’s not too late for me. And if it’s not too late for me, it’s not too late for Spike. Love changes you, Buffy. Don’t throw that away.”

Buffy swallowed. “Were you… were you in love with Doyle?”

“No,” Cordelia said softly. “No, that would have been easy. No, I had to pick-- well, that’s not important. But you know what? I could have loved Doyle, if I hadn’t been so busy putting him down for stupid reasons. And now... I’ll never get the chance to find out.”

Buffy had no answer to that.

“I’ll tell him,” Cordelia said at last. “I promise. Okay? I'll tell him tonight. I get that you need to… to clear this all away before you can move forward. And I hope you do move forward… with the man you love. I hope it all goes right. You deserve it. So I’ll tell him.”

“Thank you,” Buffy said softly, and hung up the phone. She could still hear the shower running upstairs, and smell bacon and eggs from the kitchen, and it was all so very normal and domestic and… and perfect.

And it was almost over.

*

Harmony sat on her throne and tapped her riding crop on her knee and listened as one minion after another came up and presented the results of the night’s research.

It was totally boring.

But she did have to make a decision, and so after she had thoughtfully listened to all of the stupid ideas -- or pretended to listen, because she didn’t really understand half of them, and she didn’t actually care all that much -- she picked one of the presenters at random.

“You! Um, Cecil, is it?”

“Cyril,” he mumbled awkwardly.

“Whatever. I thought your plan had a certain… _je ne parle pas. _That’s French for being cool. So I want you to get together a team, and we’ll work on getting the apocalypse going, okay?”

He glanced around, clearly pleased at her notice but uncertain. “Um, so the world’s going to end, then?”

“Uh-huh!”

“Uh, what happens to us when the world ends?”

“Well,” Harmony said, rolling her eyes. “That’s what your team is supposed to figure out!”

Another minion stepped forward. “We live on the world. If the world ends, so do we.”

“I don’t want to end,” muttered another.

As a hubbub of whining rose among her stupid minions, Harmony decided she’d had enough. She rose regally to her feet, gesturing for Parker to take his position as her right-hand man.

“Listen, guys,” she began. “You all know that I’m invincible, right? So what I say goes. And I say we’re starting an apocalypse!”

They still looked uneasy, and so she slipped the Gem of Amara off her finger and held it high so everyone could see it.

“See this?” she shouted. “This is what makes me the Big Bad! This is what makes me the boss! And I say--”

Parker disappeared from her side in a whoosh of dust.

“Hey!” Harmony was just starting to turn when she felt fingers on hers, plucking the ring out of her grasp.

“Thank you, poppet,” said a woman’s voice.

And Harmony saw an arm come from behind her, an arm with a stake, and the stake plunged into her chest and it felt just like the dozen or so times she’d been staked already except worse, way worse, and then she started to fall, except no, she wasn’t falling, she was disintegrating, she was turning to dust, she could feel herself crumbling away and it wasn’t fair, it wasn’t fair, it wasn’t _fair_….

Harmony’s dust settled onto the red silk of her throne.

Drusilla slipped the ring on her finger, holding it up to the torchlight to admire it. She did so love green. It had always looked well on her.

“Very well then,” she said briskly, seating herself on the dusty throne. “If all good children would gather round, Mummy has a story to tell.” She leaned forward, finger to her lips, shushing them before they could protest. “I do think you’ll all like the ending.”


	18. Chapter 18

Giles had just got the onions and sausage for his evening meal in the skillet when the phone rang.

He gave everything a quick stir and rushed over to the phone, blinking at the caller ID. 805 area code, but not a number he recognized. Odd. But ah well. If it was a telemarketer, perhaps he could glean some mild amusement by politely wasting their time while he cooked. He hadn't really any plans this evening.

"Hello?"

"I knew you were avoiding my calls."

_Bloody hell. _"Angel. What a pleasant surprise." Sighing inwardly, Giles stretched the cord so he could go stir his meal again, tucking the receiver between ear and shoulder.

"Is it true?" Angel's voice was a low growl.

"Given that I haven't the faintest idea what you're asking about, I really can't say." He turned the sausages carefully. Bugger, already too dark on one side. Bloody Angel and his bloody timing.

"Is Buffy… _with_ Spike?"

"I'm sorry, I didn't quite catch that," Giles replied nervously. "I'm afraid you've interrupted me preparing dinner. So if you could perhaps call back--"

Angel's voice rose. "I asked if Buffy, the slayer, is in some kind of relationship with Spike, the evil vampire. Did you hear me that time?"

Giles bridled at his tone. "I can hear you quite well."

"So, is she?"

Giles gave the onions a vigorous stir. "I can't see how that would be any business of yours."

"She is. I can't believe it."

"Whose number are you calling from?"

"Cordelia's. She just told me what's been going on. How could you let this happen?"

Giles set down his tongs and took the phone in his hand. "I'm afraid Buffy isn't known for listening to me on matters such as this."

"You're her watcher. You should--"

"I should what? Force her to do as I say? She's a grown woman, formidable and intelligent." Bugger, the onions were going to burn. He gave them another irritated stir. "She gets to make her own choices."

"She's got a sacred duty!"

"A duty which is none of your concern. And you, of all people, should be well aware Buffy is unlikely to heed any restrictions I should attempt to place on her relationships."

"She would listen to you--"

"Oh, for the love of--" Giles snapped. "She bloody well didn't listen to me about you, did she?"

There was a long moment of silence, nothing but the sound of butter sizzling as he stirred and the faint hiss of an open phone line.

"That was different," Angel growled at last.

"Ah, yes," Giles agreed, voice saturated in sarcasm. "It's always different when it's you, isn't it?"

"I am different. I… I'm coming down there."

"You most certainly are not!"

Angel let out a bitter laugh. "Try and stop me."

The phone disconnected.

Giles muttered an oath and gave his sausage and onions another stir before fumbling the receiver around so he could dial Buffy's number on the bloody irritating push-button phone. Bloody technology. Given how caller ID had failed him, he might as well have his comforting old rotary-dial after all.

"Hello? Ah, Joyce?" Bugger, he never knew how to speak to Buffy's mother anymore. Not since the handcuffs. "Is Buffy available? …Oh, in the shower? No, no need to interrupt. If you could just… just have her call me when she's done? It's really... quite urgent. Thank you."

He hung up the phone in its cradle and rushed back to the stove to give his supper a stir, but it was already too late. The onions were most definitely overdone, though likely edible. Sausages unevenly browned, of course. Even the potatoes on the back burner were likely overdone. Bloody Angel, ruining his much-anticipated bangers and mash.

He dumped beer into the skillet, set it to simmer, and poured himself a finger of whiskey. Might as well prepare for Angel's unwelcome visit.

Alcohol was an absolute must.

*

Buffy took her time about washing her hair, since her mom was downstairs watching Dawson’s Creek with Spike, and he’d pout if she tried to drag him out on patrol before the episode was over. She might as well condition properly for once.

So she washed and conditioned her hair, exfoliating and smoothing and lotioning her skin, and while she was at it she blow-dried her hair and did a couple quick curls, nothing fancy but enough to make Spike want to wind his fingers in the waves, tug her face in for a kiss, and when she caught herself thinking that, she just stared at herself in the mirror for a long, tense moment before hurriedly putting away the curling iron and slipping into patrol clothes.

She didn’t think too hard about how “patrol clothes” had changed from “jeans and a shirt she didn’t mind getting bloodstains on” to “short skirts and sexy tops that came off in a hurry.”

But the episode was still going on when she made her way down the stairs, stomping down the upstairs hall so Spike would know to watch her coming down, twirling a stake meaningfully. She caught his eye as soon as she was down far enough, raising her eyebrows significantly, and his jaw went slack in that way she’d gotten used to, that made her feel like the sexiest sex-goddess ever, and--

“Giles called,” her mother said cheerfully, reminding Buffy that she existed.

Well, there went the sex-goddess mood. “What did he want?”

“He didn’t say. Just that it was quite urgent and you should call him right away.”

Buffy rolled her eyes and grabbed the phone, taking it into the dining room so she didn’t have to listen to what’s-her-face’s whiny voice on the TV.

The phone rang just a couple times before connecting. “Buffy?”

“Yeah-huh?”

“Buffy, thank goodness. I was beginning to worry. Something quite dreadful has happened.”

“Oh, no. Did Xander come help shelve your books again?”

“Do be serious. Buffy, I’m afraid you have been betrayed.”

“Betrayed?”

“It’s… well, I’m afraid it’s Cordelia. I had thought she would still have some loyalty to you, but apparently she’s quite turned to the dark side.”

Buffy took a deep breath. “Giles, what did she do?”

“I’m afraid she… she advised Angel of your relationship with Spike.”

Buffy closed her eyes. “Oh, thank god.”

“Pardon?”

“No, never mind. Um, so she told Angel? That backstabbing wench!”

“I’m afraid so. I fear that he is… well, he said he was on his way here.”

Buffy couldn’t keep the eagerness out of her voice. “When? When will he be here?”

“Well, he didn’t precisely make an appointment.” Giles sounded affronted. “He’s driving from Los Angeles--”

“When did you talk to him?”

“Not half an hour ago,” Giles said, sounding confused now. “I tried to dissuade him, but, well--”

“I know you did, Giles.” Buffy glanced into the front room, where the closing theme music for Dawson’s was playing. “Thanks for the heads-up. You’re the best.”

“I’m sorry for such short notice. But your mother said you were in the shower, and I didn’t feel….”

Giles kept talking, but Buffy tuned him out as she looked down at herself in horror. _Shower. _She’d taken a shower. A long, hot, extremely thorough shower. A shower in which she’d used approximately ten different bath products, none of which were scented with _Eau de Sex with Spike._

_Oh god._

“Thanks, Giles,” she interrupted hastily. “Tell you what. When Angel gets down here, just… just stall him at your place. Spike and I will come by in the next, um, hour and a half? And we’ll take care of Angel. Okay? Okay. Bye!” She hung up before Giles could argue, rushing into the living room.

Spike was deep in heated debate with her mom about _something something Pacey something something Dawson something something_ and she really didn’t have time to figure it out, so she just stomped over to the couch and dragged Spike up by the arm.

“Come on, sweetie, we really have to go. Duty calls!”

His eyebrows shot up. “Does it, now?”

“Yep!” She flashed her mom a bright smile. “Sorry, Mom. But Giles just told me about something I have to handle, and it’s really an emergency. Practically an apocalypse.” When her mom’s eyes went wide, she hastily amended, “Not an apocalypse. I’m exaggerating just a teensy bit. In fact, it’s not even dangerous at all. Just… just something Spike and I have to take care of.”

Her mother nodded slowly. “All right then, honey. Be safe.”

“Oh, the safest,” Buffy said brightly, dragging Spike out the front door. “Bye!”

Spike jerked his arm out of her grip once they were off the porch, winding his fingers into hers instead. “Could let a fellow fetch his bleeding coat, love.”

“No time for that,” Buffy snapped. “Not for putting it on or taking it off again, or--” She walked faster.

“Must be quite the emergency,” Spike laughed, matching her pace.

Buffy squeezed his hand. “He’s coming.”

“Who, Santa bloody Claus? He’s a few weeks early--”

“No, it’s Angel.” Buffy stopped walking, suddenly struck with shivers. “He knows.”

Spike stopped by her side, looking straight ahead. “Ah,” he said at last. “The white knight to the rescue.”

“It’s not a rescue,” Buffy said fiercely. “It’s just… it’s the plan.”

Spike let go of her hand, fumbling in his back pocket for a cigarette. “So it is. We meeting him at the watcher’s, then? Or--”

Buffy stepped to face him and grabbed the cigarette from his fingers before he could light it, flinging it off into the darkness.

“Oi!”

She wrapped her hands in the front of his T-shirt, missing his so-grabbable duster already. “Spike, I’m not ready.”

He tilted his head back, looking down his nose at her. “Of course you’re ready,” he said in a hard voice. “You’ve _been _ready. We’ve been spinning our bloody wheels for weeks now.”

“But you’ll leave,” she said, hating how small her voice sounded. “When it’s over, you’re going to leave.”

His nostrils flared. “That’s the plan.”

“But I’m not ready for you not to be here!”

He looked at her, eyes shadowed in the moonlight, and then his head tilted down, slowly, and she tilted up to meet him, and his lips were soft and hard and cool and oh god she felt like crying.

“Spike, I--” She swallowed, the words choking up in her throat. “We don’t have much time.”

He grinned, teeth flashing -- and oh god, she was even going to miss his teeth, that one crooked tooth that made his smile perfectly _his_ \-- and he took her hand again.

“Let’s run, then,” he whispered, and they did.

They ran through the streets and they ran through the cemetery, half dancing, half wrestling, darting in for a kiss or a caress, and when they reached their crypt he wrapped his arms around her and spun her until they were both laughing and then they were inside, their fine and private place, and they stopped spinning and then the world stopped spinning after, and he kissed her tenderly again, hands cupped around her face.

“How much time?” he whispered, lips brushing hers.

“An hour?” she murmured back. “Maybe a little bit more.”

“That’s enough,” he said harshly, and then he strode away from her, silver lighter coming out of his pocket, and after he lit the first candle she took it and solemnly used it to light the other side of the crypt, every single candle, until it was all alight, and she turned to him in the flickering heat and he was looking at her, just looking, and so she smiled and took the hem of her shirt in her hands, drawing it up over her head, and he matched her, stripping his T-shirt off efficiently, and she shimmied out of her skirt as he shed his jeans, his eyes like caresses on her skin, and all the little pieces followed, boots and socks and bra and panties until they were both naked, across the room from each other, and she couldn’t move for a moment, she just looked and looked, the way the candlelight flickered over the planes and angles and surprising curves of his beautiful body, the expression on his face, unguarded and open and oh god she loved him, she took a step and another and then his skin was against hers, cool and smooth and his lips on hers, and he muttered something she couldn’t understand and they kissed and stumbled until they’d reached their little pile of pillows and blankets, falling together to their knees, still kissing, kissing, god, Buffy couldn’t stop, she was starved for his kisses, and they toppled over into softness.

“Please,” she whispered desperately, not even sure what she was begging for.

He rolled her onto her back, pressing a hard kiss to her forehead. “I’ve got you, love,” he murmured, and then he kissed her again, kissed her hair and her ears and her cheeks, kissed each closed eye with quivering lips.

“You’re crying.” His voice was ragged.

“I’m not,” she insisted.

He kissed her eyelids again. “Liar.”

“Look who’s talking,” she growled fiercely, kissing his chin.

He chuckled and started to kiss his way along her body, lips urgent, and she ran her hands down his back and through his hair and relaxed as he worshipped her, hungrily drinking in every touch and caress, tucking it away for tomorrow because this was it, it was the last time, and all right, so she was crying now, tears of ecstasy and grief leaking out of the corners of her eyes to dampen the luxurious soft pillows, but of course she was crying, of course she was, and when he finally spread her legs wide and bent to her like a supplicant, she hitched into the strokes of his tongue and gave herself over to sensation.

“That’s it, pet,” he crooned into her as he nibbled and sucked. “Drench me. Want to be all covered in you, in your heat, your scent, god--”

There was more, more words, naughty words and tender words and harsh and sweet and bitter and hungry but she was beyond language now, beyond it all, she screamed as she came, arching back, eyes wide and she stared up at the chains, his chains, his ridiculous chains and oh god, they were never going to use them again, there wasn’t time, she’d been thinking maybe it was time to try, but she’d been shy and she’d been timid and now it was too late, Angel was coming, she would never, she’d never, and she sat up abruptly, pushing Spike back into the cushions, because she would by god have this, she would have it one last time. She took his cock into her mouth tenderly, savoring, sliding her lips up and down his cool hard length, memorizing his shape, the paths of the veins along him, the texture of his skin, smoother than silk, the salty copper taste and she needed this, she needed him, she sucked him in and in, over and over, begging him with her mouth for what she needed and he swore and gave it to her, throbbing and spending in her mouth, and she reared up, his come dripping down her chin and she gave it a perfunctory swipe as he laughed up at her, eyes shining, and dragged her lips down for a kiss, open-mouthed and carnal, she could taste herself on his tongue, mingling deliciously with the flavor of him, and she sighed, rolling him over on top of her again, wanting to feel his weight, wanting his eyes gazing down at her, his hair all tousled, mad smile on his face, and she smiled back up, feeling suddenly incandescent, like every candle flame in the crypt was shining out from her skin.

“Had enough?” he challenged, eyebrows daring her.

“Don’t you dare stop,” she growled back, yanking him down for more kisses. “Asshole,” she moaned into his throat.

“Bitch,” he groaned into her hair, and then their hands met, fitting his cock to her and oh god he was inside, he was inside, and it was the last time, it was the last time, she wrapped her arms and legs around him and held him close as he thrust and thrust, his blunt teeth sinking into her shoulder, just hard enough to feel fantastic, and she came again, legs spasming as she throbbed and spent, and she lay there for a bit in a floaty haze, vaguely enjoying the slick hard friction of him inside her as he fucked her, but then she stopped being floaty and urgency filled her again _last time last time this is the last time _and she shoved him off, wriggling over onto her belly, glaring at him over her shoulder, and he barely missed a beat, laughing and grabbing her hips and plunging into her from behind, and she was grunting and gasping with every stroke, pounding her fist into the pillows, reaching down with one hand and stroking her own clit as he drove into her.

“That’s it,” he murmured, voice slurred with desire. “That’s it, Slayer. It’s bloody showtime. God, you’re gorgeous.”

She screamed again, body quivering, and _don’t stop _she bit out and _never _he vowed, and they rolled again, bodies striving and wrestling until she was on top, she sank down on him with a grunt and rode him, thighs clenching as she took him into herself again and again, deep and hard and she was swearing, clawing at his chest as he pumped up into her, hands stroking her everywhere, clumsy with passion, and she could feel it building again, she arched her back and rolled hard, driving into the ecstasy even as it swept over her, _don’t stop don’t stop don’t stop _and it kept on building and building until she couldn’t hold it any more, she let it go, let herself be dragged under, and she floated again, dreamily rocking as Spike pumped in her again and again, jaw clenching as he finally found release, she could feel him throbbing and spending inside her and she sank down onto his chest, eyes closed, feeling his hands tenderly wrapping a blanket over her shoulders, and as her breathing started to return to normal, she heard it.

A throat clearing.

Her eyes flew open and she turned her head to peek over her shoulder at the doorway behind her, feeling her lover’s arm tightening around her back.

“Hello, Angel,” Spike said evenly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a note for AO3 readers that this fic is complete at 21 chapters +epilogue. I'll be posting a chapter every day or two until they are all up.


	19. Chapter 19

Buffy did not panic.

She totally one-hundred-percent did not.

Okay, so she froze, setting her head carefully back on Spike’s chest, first rapidly assessing exactly which parts of her body were covered by the blanket, then thinking back on what exactly Angel might have seen within the last minute or so, and then trying to remember exactly where all of her clothes were, but freezing was not panic. It was just… a natural thing to do in a stressful situation. That was it. Totally natural.

Of course, while she was all naturally frozen in definitely-not-panic, Spike and Angel were having a conversation.

“You’re early,” Spike drawled when Angel didn’t respond to his initial greeting. “Weren’t expecting you for another twenty minutes or so.”

“I drove fast,” Angel said in a low growl. “Buffy wasn’t at home, so I followed your scent here.”

“Pity. Was hoping to have time to tidy up. Polish the chains and all.”

“Yeah. Right. So, you going to stop hiding behind Buffy any time soon? Come out where I can stake you.”

Buffy startled at that, muscles tensing up at the thought of Angel actually killing Spike. She should have expected it, she'd even suggested it might happen to Giles, but she’d never thought--

Spike didn’t even flinch. “And who’s hiding?” Spike stretched beneath Buffy, tucking his free arm behind his head, the other stroking her shoulder. “Just having a moment with my lady.”

“_Your_ lady.”

Spike tsked. “I told you the other night. You’re the one who didn’t believe me.”

Buffy’s head shot up at that, her eyes meeting Spike’s. “_You _told him?”

He looked at her, expression unfathomable, lips quirked in an almost-smile. “Not that it did any good,” he murmured, something like regret tingeing his voice. He glanced off behind her again, eyes hard. “Perhaps next time you’ll consider knocking before entering a private residence,” he said more loudly.

“I did knock.” There was a long, awkward pause. “I, uh, I heard screaming.”

That shook Buffy out of being frozen all right, and right into wanting to sink into the floor. Especially since she was pretty sure around the same time as the screaming she’d been saying some other stuff that hadn’t really been meant for any ears but Spike’s. She buried her face in Spike’s chest, mortified.

Spike’s arm tightened on her shoulders again, bracingly. “And you just had to charge in to rescue her. She’s the bloody slayer!”

“Yeah, but I—" Angel’s voice was defensive, which told Buffy that he _had _assumed she’d needed rescuing, that he didn’t actually think she could handle things for herself, and fury started to bubble up inside her, because who the hell did he think he was? She was the slayer, the goddamn Chosen One, and since when did that make her a fainting damsel in distress?

That was enough.

Buffy pushed herself up to sitting, trying not to obviously react to the fact that Spike was still inside her, still kinda hard, and oh god, why couldn’t Angel have stayed away longer? But it was too late now, and she managed to kinda-subtly disengage while wrapping the blanket around herself and turning to face Angel. Spike sat up behind her, hands on her waist, not hiding behind her, but… not getting in her way. Like he was ready to watch the show.

Angel wasn’t quite looking at them, eyes fixed on the candles off to one side. He had a stake in his hand and a scowl on his face, and looked about ready to explode.

“Angel,” Buffy said, resolution making her voice firm. “Why are you even here?” Spike was pressing kisses all along her throat, which was a little distracting but also kind of steadying.

"Cordelia said you and Spike were…." Angel’s eyes flickered to them and away. “I was worried.”

She started to plant her hands on her hips in annoyance, but the blanket started to slip so she grabbed it again. “Oh, _now _you’re worried? After you just walked away without even saying goodbye?”

“Bad form, that,” Spike said from behind her, voice smug.

“Shut up, Spike,” Angel growled.

“Don’t you tell my boyfriend to shut up!”

Angel blinked, surprise all over his face. “I thought you needed me. Spike is dangerous!”

Buffy sat up straighter. “Oh, and I’m not? Believe me, if I wanted Spike dead, he’d be dead.” She gave Spike a quick smile over her shoulder. “No offense.”

He grinned. “None taken. Bloody fantastic, the way you could break me in two with just one squeeze of your hot little—”

“Spike!” Angel burst out, eyes bugging out.

“—_hand_,” Spike finished, pressing a showy kiss to Buffy’s shoulder. “Oh, you thought I was going to say something else?” He snaked his hands around her waist again.

Angel lunged forward. “Get your hands off my—"

Buffy wriggled free of Spike’s grasp, standing up. “I am not your anything!” The blanket started to slip again; she wrapped it tighter.

Angel stared at her for a moment before his chin jutted out stubbornly. “I know that! I just can’t believe you let him do… that!”

Buffy narrowed her eyes, suspicious. “Do what? Angel, how long were you watching us?”

“Showtime,” Spike murmured from the floor behind her, and she remembered just what they’d been doing when he’d said that to her, what _she’d_ been doing, what she’d been _saying_, and she flushed.

“Long enough,” Angel growled.

Buffy lifted her chin, feeling like she was sweating rage out of every pore. “First of all, that’s gross, and I can’t believe you would think it was even remotely okay. Second of all, what I do, and who I do it with, is none of your damn business. Thirdly—" She tried to get the blanket more securely wrapped, but it was all soft and floppy and wouldn’t stay up, and it was hard to be righteously furious when one wrong move could leave her naked. “Angel, could you turn around so I can get dressed?”

“Oh, must you, pet?” When she turned to glare down at Spike for that crack, he was pouting, arms tucked behind his head again, lying there all spreadeagled and unashamedly naked and messy and obviously-just-fucked, and god he was beautiful. Her beautiful asshole.

“Put your pants on, Spike,” she said evenly, making a face at him to keep from blurting out what she was thinking. “We can’t do this with you naked.”

“Nothing he hasn’t seen and enjoyed before, love,” he purred in response, but when Angel had pointedly turned his back, stiff with injured pride and anger, Spike rolled to his feet and sauntered over to where he’d dropped his jeans. Buffy dropped the blanket and walked to the other side of the room, yanking on her clothes and defiantly marching right back to Spike, who was watching her with unconcealed admiration. She took his hand, suddenly feeling weirdly calm; he looked down at their joined hands in surprise.

“Okay, you can turn around now.”

Angel turned around, eyes wounded and angry, and okay. Okay. Mission accomplished. That was definitely the look of a guy who was regretting walking away. There was her revenge, right there. She’d won. Except… it didn’t feel like she’d won anything.

Her chin felt itchy, and she scrubbed at it, annoyed, except it was kind of crusty, and she looked down at the dry white flakes on her hand, like donut glaze, or-- and she realized what that was.

_I have been talking to Angel with Spike’s come on my chin_, she thought dizzily, and started to laugh, because this wasn’t at all how she’d imagined things going down, but she should have known because… this was just how things went for her. Of course she wouldn’t get to be all dignified. Of course she’d spend nearly two months trying to smell just the right way, only to have it not matter because Angel had come in and seen her and Spike screwing like crazed weasels. But… that was going to save her some exposition, at least. So she took a deep breath and went on with the speech she had prepared, because what else was she supposed to do?

“Angel, when you left you wanted me to move on. You said I should find someone normal to be with. And I tried. I tried to find someone normal. Except it turns out normal isn’t what I need.” Okay, so that wasn’t really her speech. Her speech had been stupid. What she was saying now, it was better. Truer. So she went on. “I need… I need something more. And I found it.” She squeezed Spike’s hand, glancing at him sidelong. He was looking at her with that strange, unreadable expression again, and it filled her with warmth. “I’m happy, Angel. I’m really, truly happy. I’ve moved on. I think… I think you need to really let me go.”

There had been more to the speech, a whole bunch of the stuff Cordelia had made her realize had been messed up about her and Angel, and about Angel specifically, but now that it was happening, revenge time at last, she just… didn’t feel the need to even say it.

Weirdly, Spike didn’t seem to feel the need to say anything either. That was a first.

“Buffy,” Angel said at last, searching her face. “When I left, you know it wasn’t because I didn’t love you.”

“I know,” she said gently. “But I can’t spend the rest of my life like… like a princess trapped in a castle waiting for my knight to rescue me. That’s not who I am. I don’t get rescued. I’m the rescuer. _I’m _the knight. And that’s not just who I am, it’s who I want to be.” She let go of Spike’s hand then, not because she was rejecting him, but because... this really was something she had to do for herself. “You chose the life you wanted. You chose to leave. And I get to choose what I do, too.”

“And you’re choosing Spike.” That hard note was back in Angel’s voice, his lip curling in derision, and Buffy was seriously fighting the urge to punch him in the face when the door to the crypt crashed open, a dozen or more bumpy-faced vampires rushing in.

Buffy let loose her fist at the first one to reach her instead, because _what the hell? _“Do you mind? We’re having a serious conversation here!”

Spike set his back to hers, lashing out viciously. “What the bleeding hell are you doing, Cedric?”

“You know these guys?” Dammit, she hadn’t grabbed any stakes on her way out the door. _Stupid stupid stupid…._

“Know them?” Spike kicked another vampire in the head. “They’re supposed to bloody work for me!”

“Aha!” Angel tried to point an accusing finger, but he had a vampire hanging on each arm. From the cloud of dust in front of him he’d taken care of at least one of their assailants before they’d restrained him. “I knew you were up to no good! Building up a vampire army to take on the slayer, getting her to let her guard down--”

“Bugger off!” Spike snarled. “We were bloody digging holes in the bloody ground!” He had a few vampires hanging off him now, too many to throw off, though he was still struggling.

“Well tell them to go dig another hole, then!” Buffy was still fighting, too, but without a stake her options were limited, and she soon found herself immobilized by her own mob of vampires. She braced herself for the pain of fangs sinking into her neck, but weirdly the vampires didn’t even try to bite her. What the hell?

Spike drew himself up proudly. “Listen, you pathetic wankers! I’m the one who bloody hired you! You work for me, the fucking Big Bad!”

One of the remaining vampires, a big, burly fellow who looked like he’d be able to dig a hole straight through to China all on his own, faced up to Spike with stolid defiance. “There’s a new Big Bad in town, Spike. We work for the Mistress now. She commanded us to fetch you.”

“The Mistress?” Spike started to laugh. “Oh, bloody hell. What did she do, give every last one of you blowies? Has she got you fetching bloody unicorn statues as well?”

The vampires all gave each other fearful looks, then started to drag their prisoners out the door and into the night without another word.

Spike was still laughing.

*

_Bloody Harmony and her delusions of grandeur!_

Spike had to admit some culpability here. He’d been neglecting the crew he’d hired, leaving them basically to their own devices while he courted the slayer -- and while he’d made sure they all knew he was still bloody well evil and this was all a cunning plot, of course they’d have had suspicions. Suspicions Harmony could easily have stoked with a few poisonous words in the right ear and a vigorous application of her admittedly-glorious tits and passable bedroom skills. It had been negligent of Spike to let her live -- really, to let any of them live. He should have staked them all, one by one, as soon as they were no longer needed for him to find the Gem. Bloody wrong call there. Not thinking with the right head.

Which, to be fair, was to be expected when he was shagging Buffy. He considered himself fortunate he was even able to put two words together most days.

But he just couldn’t take the fellows seriously, even now. Not with the way they were acting all a-shiver with dread. Harmony, inspiring fear? Most likely she had just threatened to _talk_ more if they came back empty-handed. Possibly about Paris. That terror, at least, Spike could understand.

“Spike?” Buffy hissed from behind him, where the four of Spike’s ex-minions that would be first to die were frog-marching her along. “Are you okay? Why are you laughing?”

“Because he’s an idiot,” Angel grumbled, and that just made Spike laugh harder, because just the thought of Harmony and Angel having a conversation was bloody hilarious. _Windbag, meet airhead. _He snorted.

“Don’t worry, love,” he managed to say between snickers. “I can talk down their bloody _Mistress_. Leave it all to me.” And then after he’d talked her down, he’d go fetch the bloody Gem of Amara and stake her and the rest of the traitors in the lair, and then….

He still didn’t have a bloody step two. But at least the revenge on Angel was bloody well accomplished.

He whistled as they entered the lair and were dragged over to the dangling sets of manacles they’d set up as something of a larder some time ago -- there was another wrong call, Buffy wasn’t likely to approve of his letting the fellows keep killing, but a little late now. Some disrespectful twit -- probably that pillock boy-toy Harm had turned -- had draped Spike’s red silk sheets over a chair and set up a fancy dais since the last time he’d been by the lair, and the minions chained them all up in a row facing the ersatz throne -- Spike in the middle, with Buffy to his left and Angel to his right -- and then gathered in a mob behind them. Cedric, bloody traitor, took the manacle key up to the empty throne and knelt, waiting.

_A lot of bloody ceremony for bloody Harmony_, Spike groused inwardly, rolling his eyes. _That must have been one buggering good blow job._

And then there was a swoosh of silk and a rush of air, and a figure appeared in the arched doorway to the hall, and Spike’s mouth fell open. Tall and slim and beautiful, clad in wine-red velvet, a secret smile on her cool face, Drusilla stood there, poised like a ballerina about to dance.

She always had known how to make an entrance.

“Drusilla!” Angel growled, struggling against his chains.

Buffy whipped her head around to glare at Spike. “Has she been here this whole time?”

“Not long at all, sunshine,” Drusilla crooned sweetly. “But I just couldn’t wait any longer. I had to come fetch my treasure.” She held up her hand, a gleam of green and gold winking from her finger. A very familiar gleam of green and gold.

Spike felt his laughter die away. “Oh, bloody hell.”


	20. Chapter 20

Buffy felt sick.

She’d known Spike wasn’t good. She’d known he hadn’t reformed, that he’d only been helping her and hanging out with her because of their temporary alliance, and that their whole relationship was a big fat lie. She’d known all of this, but still… she hadn’t expected this, that he would have been so low as to be doing all those things with her and still be with Drusilla.

God, she was stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Of course he still had Drusilla. Their first alliance had been for Drusilla’s sake. He’d hated Angel for Drusilla’s sake. And she couldn’t really even claim to have been misled, when she’d played on that very hatred of Angel to cement their current misalliance. No, she’d known who Spike was -- and who he loved -- all along. She still felt like a fool.

She couldn’t even look at him, all shirtless and sexy in the chains next door, so instead she tugged at her manacles and watched in impotent fury as Drusilla slunk over to the stupid pretend throne and accepted the key from Spike’s stupid minion.

“Thank you, my sweet,” Drusilla said serenely, tucking the key into the folds of her dress -- she had pockets, Buffy realized, which meant her velvet dress was custom-made, which meant Spike had probably commissioned it for her, and okay, so this was a stupid thing to be jealous about when presented with Spike’s lover, but she was suddenly seeing red over the fact that Spike had never commissioned _her _a dress with pockets, and didn’t the slayer have more use for pockets than some crazy ho-bitch vampire who didn’t need to carry weapons?

Spike had fallen silent and still after his last bout of stupid British swear words that Buffy couldn’t believe she had once found sexy, but Angel was shaking his chains furiously.

“Dru! Let us go!”

“Shh,” the mad vampire said softly, seating herself on the fakeity throne. “Daddy mustn’t throw oranges at the players, not until the play is through.”

“This isn’t funny, Dru!”

“Oh, but it is! A whimsical lark, all sparkles and choruses and songs.” Drusilla glared nastily at Spike. “Until the players changed the script.”

Spike still remained silent.

Buffy couldn’t. “Oh, like this wasn’t your plan all along? You and Spike planned all of this together.”

Drusilla laughed then, merry and childlike, as if Buffy had just put on a fantastic puppet show. “I sent my knight forth into peril, it’s true, my _verray parfit gentil knyght_, I sent him forth to find my grail, but it seems he got lost along the way. Blinded by the sun.”

“Look, I don’t know why you’re calling Spike a parfait, unless you’re talking about all his stupid layers, but there’s no grail here.” Buffy shook her chains again.

Drusilla ignored her, gliding smoothly to her feet. She prowled slowly towards Spike, who stood uneasily, eyes riveted on his sire. “Foolish, foolish. I sent you to fetch my treasure. I gave you the map, didn’t I? A perfect map carved in the finest alabaster, and you came, and you found it, except not for me. You betrayed me, you wanted it for yourself, the treasure, the sunlight, and you hid it away for thieves to find, and find it she did, nasty pink thief, she stole it away, when it was mine all along. She stole it and so I stole it back, sent her to dust, the false idol, sent her all to dust. And now it’s mine, just as I had planned it, just as I knew it would be.” As she drew closer to Spike, her slender hand slipped into the velvet folds of her dress and came out with a sharp wooden stake, eyes huge and sad. “And now, my knight, my sweet betrayer, you must pay the price.” Her hand lifted, stake ready--

“Stop!”

Drusilla turned to Buffy coolly. “Sunlight has no say in the affairs of the dark.”

Buffy shifted uneasily, not sure why she’d yelled, except that she’d imagined Spike dusting there in front of her, and she’d just… done it… and okay, she knew why she’d done it, because she loved him, but she didn’t want to admit it, she didn’t want to have been that stupid _again_, but as Drusilla approached her she tossed her hair and glared the vampire down.

“He didn’t betray you,” Buffy said, feeling her heart break under the force of the simple words. “It was fake. Spike isn’t in love with me, and I’m not--” She broke off, gulping. “It was all an act, every second of it. We had a truce, that’s all. We were just pretending to be together so that we could get our revenge on Angel.”

Angel stood up straighter. “Buffy, I--”

“Shut up, you twit,” Spike muttered.

Drusilla stepped closer to Buffy, reaching out with the sharp stake and stroking the point lightly along Buffy’s jaw. “Truce, truth,” she said softly. “‘Truth is a breath, a wind, a shadow, a phantom. Long have I pursued it, but never have I touched the hem of its garment.’”

“Leave her, Dru,” Spike said sharply, struggling.

Drusilla stepped closer to Buffy, so close Buffy felt cold, as if the chill of the grave was radiating from the vampire’s smooth, white skin. “I know my boy’s heart,” she whispered. “I’ve known it for as long as once it beat, and thrice over again. His black heart has belonged to the sunshine for ages. Can’t you see it, when you look at him?” Drusilla slipped behind Buffy and caught her about the waist, twisting her roughly in her chains to face Spike. “He’s all covered in you.”

Buffy’s eyes met Spike’s, hooded and intense and completely unreadable, and she couldn’t look away. “All I see is an evil vampire I should have staked years ago,” she said as coldly as she could manage.

Drusilla laughed in Buffy’s ear, a dark chuckle that ruffled her hair. “What fools these mortals be.” She stepped away suddenly, and Buffy swung back to face front. “But no matter. If you wish, you may ride the merry-go-round first.” And then Drusilla was in front of her again, her true face showing, fangs gleaming, and Buffy tensed automatically, trying to get leverage for a kick--

And Spike laughed.

Drusilla stepped back and Buffy turned her head to look at Spike, unwillingly,

“Oh, Dru,” he chuckled, shaking his head. “You’ve gone and spoiled the ending. And here you haven’t even told them the ironic plot twist. Not fair, love.”

Drusilla recoiled slightly, pouting. “Naughty boy,” she scolded. “And here we were all getting along so well.”

Spike shook his head, slipping into his demon visage. “They don’t even know what the treasure is, my sweet.” Buffy glared at him, trying to muster a laugh at the way his fangs made him lisp, but too pissed off to quite get there.

“Shall I show them?” Drusilla giggled.

“Yes, love,” Spike purred -- no, Buffy thought grouchily, _lisped_. He was a total lisping lisper. “It’s time. At long last.”

Drusilla waved her hand gleefully in front of Buffy’s face, brandishing a heinously gaudy ring, gold cutwork with a green cabochon jewel. “Isn’t it perfect?” she crooned, swaying in a hypnotic dance.

Buffy smiled fiercely. “Gee. Looks like somebody hit the clearance rack at Claire’s.”

Drusilla growled and slapped her, hard, before waltzing over to display the ring to Angel.

“The Gem of Amara,” Spike said in a loud voice. “Proud sponsor of tonight’s bloodbath.”

Angel growled and lunged helplessly. “You gave Dru the Gem of Amara? Are you crazy?”

Buffy waved her manacled hand. “Excuse me? Some of us didn’t do the reading. What’s the Gem of Amara, besides majorly tacky?”

“It’s a legend,” Angel growled. “It’s supposed to make a vampire truly immortal, immune to sunlight, holy water, crosses…”

“Don’t forget staking,” Spike laughed. “Means my sweet Drusilla’s unstoppable now, isn’t that right, pet?”

“So if it’s a legend, how did…” Buffy stood a little straighter, glaring at Spike. “The digging. The grave-robbing. Is that what it was all about?” Angel was still sputtering in the background, but Buffy tuned him out.

Spike lifted his chin higher, glaring at her with his yellow eyes. “That’s right, slayer. Been undermining you -- and half of Sunnydale -- for months, right under your pathetic little nose.” He grinned, showing his fangs. “Didn’t really think you’d be thick enough to fall for it, but I overestimated you. Could have had your head weeks ago, if I hadn’t been having so… much… _fun._”

Drusilla slunk back to Spike, pouting again. “You were to bring it to me,” she murmured sulkily, hands caressing his bare chest.

“And if your bloody _daddy _hadn’t been such a halfwit, I would have done.” Spike nuzzled into Drusilla’s hair. “Wasn’t much point in killing the slayer all on my own, was there? Not when I could double the pleasure by doing it right in front of bloody Angel. But he wouldn’t bloody show.”

Drusilla looked up at him coyly. “Daddy’s here now.”

“So he is.” Spike cracked his neck. “Unchain me and I’ll do it this instant. I’ll make her throat my chalice, let Angel watch.” He kissed her forehead. “And you, my black goddess, can have a ringside seat.”

Drusilla tilted her head up then, pressing her lips to Spike’s, and he kissed her back, yellow demon-eyes closing in catlike pleasure.

Buffy just watched, the sick feeling now just a dull ache. God, she was so, so stupid. Stupider than stupid. Giles would kill her for it… except now he wouldn’t ever get the chance. Maybe he’d never even know what had happened to her. She felt suddenly sorry for Giles, not even getting the chance to say_ I told you so._ That was the part he liked best about being a watcher. Even more than the research.

Drusilla stepped back and spat on the ground. “You still taste like ashes,” she accused.

Spike shrugged. “Was all part of the plan. Give it time, we’ll wash the Buffy-taste away, with blood.” He shook his arms. “If you please?”

With a fey smile, Drusilla fished the key out of her stupid Spike-sponsored pocket, unlocking the manacles about his wrists. She growled sharply, like a terrier, tucking the key away again. “Now, kiss your mummy properly.”

“Oh, I’ll kiss you _im_properly,” he growled back, and then he had Drusilla in his arms, his hands roaming all over her body, rucking up the velvet as he kissed her deep and long, tongues and lips and fangs, sweeping her up and carrying her up onto the dais. He set her down tenderly just before the red-draped seat.

Drusilla looked up at him, a wicked smile on her face. “There’s my William.”

“Your William never left,” Spike said fervently, catching up her hand and kissing her knuckles, just above the stupid tacky all-powerful ring.

“Then keep your promise,” she scolded, taking his shoulders and turning him to face Buffy.

He smiled viciously. “Take your seat, love. I’ll give you a show you’ll never forget.”

Angel was shouting something in the background, but all Buffy could hear as Spike sauntered towards her, still all vamped-out and yellow-eyed and monstrous, was his voice. Not his stupid lispy vampire voice, though. His stupid lying voice from the other night, his voice that had sounded so human, so true.

_God, I love you._

He was a better liar than she’d thought.

She could see over Spike’s shoulder that Drusilla had sunk down on the ridiculous chair, picking up some stick thing that was next to it -- oh, a riding crop. God, could she get any tackier? But then Spike filled Buffy’s vision, shirtless and vampy, and she wanted to cry, because she still kinda loved him. Even though she hated him, even though he was about to kill her.

He stopped a few feet in front of her, yellow eyes raking her dispassionately from head to toe. “Was beginning to think I’d never get you chained up,” he said at last.

“What can I say?” Buffy tossed her hair defiantly. “I’m not _totally_ stupid.”

“You were just so bloody _precious_,” Spike went on. “Pretending to be all shy and innocent when I’d been fucking you silly for weeks.” He stepped closer, close enough to run his hand up her arm, his touch a tender lie.

“Says the guy who wanted to play the fainting poet.” Buffy raised her eyebrows challengingly. “Is it my fault you liked to have me beat on you? Really got into the part there, Spikey.”

He was right in front of her now, gaze like a cobra as he caressed her wrist, fingers sliding over the manacle. “What can I say? I’m a method actor.”

And she felt something hard and cold press into her palm, cool uneven metal, and as he firmly closed her fingers over the jagged piece of metal, she realized what it was.

A key.

He stepped in closer, his chest brushing against hers, hand still wrapped around her closed fist.

“Pretend I just said something shocking and horrible,” he whispered faintly into her ear.

She didn’t have to pretend to be shocked; her eyes flew wide, and her fist clenched tighter around the key, the key that he’d given her, and oh god, it had to be the key to the manacles, why was he giving her the key?

“I’m sorry,” he went on, voice the barest whisper against her ear. “Should have known things would go all pear-shaped. Act terrified now, love.” He roughly caressed her breasts, and she moaned, still not quite understanding what was going on.

He stepped around behind her, cupping both breasts harshly as he bent to her ear again. “Got to make this look good,” he murmured, even his rough demon voice sounding apologetic. “Listen sharp. I’ll distract her as long as I can, but she’ll make short work of me. She’s fast, she’s mad, and with the Gem of Amara even you can’t bloody hurt her. Get yourself unlocked, rescue the Great Forehead if you must, then run. Watcher’ll find a way to counteract the Gem. Go straight to him, get all your mates to stay inside, nobody even looks out a bloody window. She’ll get them to invite her in right enough if they’re daft enough to meet her eyes. Gonna bite you now, she’s watching. No veins.”

Spike ran his lips down to her shoulder and sank his fangs in, shaking her dramatically, and oh god, it hurt, it hurt, but her mind was spinning too fast for her to care, and she was crying but it wasn’t because of the pain, it was because… because….

Spike reared back with an elaborate flourish. “Don’t worry, Slayer,” he crowed loudly. “I won’t end things too soon. Got to savor this.” He caressed her roughly again.

“Spike, don’t--!” Buffy wasn’t even sure what she was asking him not to do.

He crushed her close again, lips to her ear. “Wasn’t lying, the other night,” he whispered urgently. “I bloody well do love you. Remember that, won’t you, when I’m gone?” He pressed a showy kiss to her throat, laughing viciously, and then his lips were brushing her ear tenderly again. “Don’t be a hero. Run. We who are about to die…”

She felt him coiling behind her, and suddenly he ducked under her bound arm, flinging himself bodily at the dais, and she heard Drusilla shriek in rage as Spike bowled her over along with her stupid chair, and oh god oh god oh god Buffy fumbled with the key, going on tiptoes so she could bring her hands together, jamming the key into the opposite manacle, and that wrist was free and then the other, and Spike was rolling on the ground with Drusilla, snarling and snapping and punching, and Buffy froze, staring at them, because… he really was about to die.

And she loved him.

God, she was stupid.

*

Spike kept half an eye on Buffy as he fought -- or maybe a quarter of an eye, just a smidgen, because Drusilla was deadly enough when she wasn’t invincible, but he was already coming all over bruises, he could feel it, each blow sending out ripples of pain, and she was just as she’d been when the brawl had started, except for her growing rage, and he felt a rib snap and he grinned, even though it hurt like bloody fire, because he’d suffered worse, he’d lived through a bloody broken back, and all right, he wasn’t going to live through this, but he was no stranger to pain, he was a fucking connoisseur of fucking pain, and Buffy’s chains were clinking like music, like the world’s most ironic bloody soundtrack, and then the tiny corner of consciousness he could spare for Buffy realized she was free, fighting her way through the confused throng of minions to bloody Angel, of course she was saving bloody Angel, of course she was, she loved the great git, forehead and all, and Dru punched him in the chin then, he saw stars, feeling another bruise blossoming on his jaw, and she was tearing at his shoulder with her fangs, sharp edges ripping through his flesh, but it was all right, it was all right, as long as she was hurting him she wasn’t hurting Buffy, and Buffy would free Angel and the two of them would run, they’d run just like he’d told her, and they’d live happily ever after, or at least Buffy would be happy, Angel would live broodily ever after but Buffy seemed to like that so whatever as long as she was alive, Buffy was alive, she was going to run just like he’d said and by the time Dru had rendered Spike unto dust they’d be gone, she’d be safe, she’d be safe, and there went another rib, or maybe his bloody spleen, something had splintered or crunched or ruptured or all of the above, but Buffy was safe, she’d be happy, she’d be safe and happy and that was all Spike wanted. She could have Angel, she could have him, and Spike would have what he deserved.

And as Dru dislocated his shoulder with a sickly pop, he started to laugh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Note: Drusilla quotes the poem “Truth, said a traveller” by Stephen Crane, best known for his novel The Red Badge of Courage. The poem was published in his collection The Black Riders and Other Lines in 1895.
> 
> https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Black_Riders_and_Other_Lines


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, my betas Sigyn, SzmattyCat, and EllieRose101 are the BEST, supporting me and my fragile ego even when they are overwhelmed and stressed and busy as heck. Special shoutout in this chapter to EllieRose101, whose suggestions to rework the ending scene made it SO much better. (Also smuttier. Seriously, you guys should thank her bunches.) Sigyn also convinced me to let Angel have his say, which resulted in Buffy having more to say, which made his comeuppance even sweeter. I have the BEST betas!

Buffy had never really been good at meditation.

She’d tried, she really had, but every time she felt like she was getting good at it, something would happen to knock her off her game, and she’d be right back to square one, chakras misaligned and balance unbalanced and her chi way splodey instead of smooth and peaceful like it was supposed to be.

There had been the crystal-meditation with Giles. That had gone great -- until it ended up with him stabbing her in the back and her having to fight an insane-o druggie vampire with her powers all gone, and as soon as she’d gotten her powers back she’d gone and smashed all Giles’s stupid quartz crystals muttering _can you see the flaw now? Huh? Can you? _Giles had not bothered to replace the crystals, just nodding in penitent acceptance and sweeping up the shards after. After that he’d also invested in some thicker protective gear for their sparring sessions.

She’d tried tai chi with Angel, but really that had been less about feeling her chi and more about feeling hopeless lust, which had been slightly less than meditatey in the long run. Plus, later on she’d found out Angel hadn’t even been doing it right, probably because he was also feeling hopeless lust instead of peacefully flowing chi. She hadn’t tried again.

Willow had enticed her with incense and candles and aromatherapy. Oz had given her doses of his unique philosophy. Xander had given her some Winnie-the-Pooh zen book that she hadn’t quite got the gist of, and he later admitted he hadn’t either, he just liked to laugh at Tigger. None of it had helped get Buffy into a state of peace; she’d just ended up more frustrated with the world.

What Buffy _had _found helped her to clear her mind was hitting things. Lots of things, really hard, really fast, and preferably followed by a big poof of vampire dust. That was restful in a way that people who weren’t slayers probably wouldn’t understand... except Spike kind of had.

He’d understood her.

And since she knew he understood her so well, she didn’t feel one smidgen bad about ignoring his inane suggestion to run; instead she _meditated_ her way through the confused throng of minion vampires until she had reached Angel where he was struggling against his chains.

When she was in front of him, in a miraculously clear space -- well, okay, it wasn’t a miracle, she’d cleared it herself with a lot of really awesome roundhouse kicks -- he was looking at her in some weird mix of brooding admiration and wounded broodingness, a look that no other face in the world could pull off but his.

“Buffy,” he said earnestly, eyes flaring with emotion. “I knew it couldn’t be true. I knew--”

“We don’t have time for this,” Buffy snapped, glaring up at his manacles. She could reach them, if she stood on tiptoes, but she couldn’t see where the keyholes were.

“You have to run! Drusilla’s dangerous. With that gem, she’ll kill you.”

“Yeah, Spike already tried that.” Buffy lashed out with a back kick, sending a vampire flying. “Look, we can talk about this later. Can you take care of the small fry?” She pressed the manacle key into his grasping fingers. “I’ve got a date with the Big Bad. And for once, I don’t mean Spike.”

“Buffy!”

Buffy didn’t answer; she was already shoving her way through the milling confusion to the huge open space where Spike and Drusilla were wrestling, the red silk drapery tangled about them. Spike was laughing, a sort of pained, hysterical laughter that made her stomach ache, and Buffy didn’t hesitate, just ran up to Drusilla and kicked her in the head.

“Get your crazy hands off my boyfriend!”

Drusilla’s head recoiled from the blow, snapping back instantly, her fey eyes wide and fixed on Buffy. She was in her human guise now, which was somehow more disturbing than when she was all bumpy-faced. Vampire faces were all the same, in a way -- shallow yellow predator eyes, bumpy ridges flattening facial expressions into varying shades of rage, fangs presenting obvious danger. Drusilla’s human face was childlike and ancient all at once, the danger hidden, her eyes deep and compelling and--

Spike lunged up and caught Drusilla by the hair, yanking her head back again. “Are you bloody mental, Slayer?” he shouted raggedly. “Told you to bloody run!”

“You’re not the boss of me!” Buffy retorted. “I know what I’m doing!” She kicked Drusilla in the chin again, since Spike was presenting her with such a lovely target. The vampire hissed at the blow, backhanding Spike across the face. He swore and let go of her hair, and she rolled to a crouch, glaring at Buffy.

Spike tried to sit up and fell back instantly. “Oh, so you weren’t just looking bloody Drusilla in the bloody eyes?”

“I wasn’t--” _Crap,_ she _had_ been!

Drusilla affected a pout, even as she started to circle Buffy. “Uninvited visitors mustn’t spill the tea,” she hissed bitterly.

“I’d say kidnapping me and chaining me up pretty much constitutes an invitation,” Buffy said with a grin, circling as well. Spike was between them, dazed and groaning, and she fixed her gaze on Drusilla’s chest, which both helped to avoid the crazy eyes and kept Spike slightly in her line of sight, too. God, it hadn’t taken her that long to undo the manacles and get to Angel, but his bare chest was already half purple, his arm at a weird angle to his body. He was back to his human face, except he was already so swollen he might as well be vamped out. She was vaguely aware there was more battle going on behind her -- Angel taking out the minions, like she’d asked, either because she’d asked him or because he didn’t want to hit Drusilla. Good for him.

Drusilla laughed, fingers rippling in invitation. “Weren’t invited as a guest for tea,” she sing-songed. “You were to be the finger sandwiches.”

“One, ew, and two, _ew._” Buffy feinted to the left before jumping over Spike and driving her fist straight at Drusilla’s chin again. It connected with a crunch, and Buffy followed up with a quick knee to the stomach that sent the vampire reeling.

“A little help, love?” Spike wheezed faintly behind her, just as Buffy staggered back from a punch to the side of her head.

“Kinda busy here.” Buffy tried a sweep kick; Drusilla leapt over it, laughing merrily like she was jumping rope, but was sent staggering by Buffy’s follow-up kick in the stomach.

“Not much help at your back with my arm dislocated.” Spike sounded almost himself, wry and teasing, except for that catch at the end that sounded like agony.

“Fine! Hold your horses!” Buffy managed to catch Drusilla’s skirt as it swirled between them, giving it a vicious tug that sent the vampire crashing to the floor. She spun and grabbed Spike’s limp arm, setting her booted heel to his chest and giving the arm a good yank. It popped sickeningly back into his socket.

Spike laughed again, high and hysterical. “Ta, love.” He rolled to his knees, shaky.

Buffy whirled and just managed to deflect Drusilla’s clawed hands as they slashed at her throat, snagging the vampire’s wrist long enough to punch her right in the nose.

Drusilla stumbled back, then drew herself up gracefully, poking her nose back into its straight line, the swift healing of the bone making a sickening crack. “No biscuits for you,” she said sadly, then crouched and sprang like a hellhound with a tuxedo in its sights, fangs out and slashing at Buffy’s throat with her perfect French manicure. Buffy flipped backwards to escape, and Spike seized the opportunity to launch an assault of his own, a blow to Drusilla’s solar plexus that she laughed at.

“Did you do her nails, too?” Buffy yelled at Spike as he tumbled back from Drusilla’s counterattack.

“Haven’t seen her since bloody summer!” Spike retorted, clutching at his ribs.

“And why didn’t you ever give _me _a dress with pockets?” Buffy took her turn at bat, landing a flurry of blows that managed to send Drusilla off-balance -- barely.

“I’ll sew pockets in all your bloody frocks myself, we get out of this,” Spike growled fervently, sending Drusilla reeling the other way.

“What, you can sew?” Buffy slammed her clenched fists into the side of Drusilla’s head. She just giggled as she staggered.

“What, you can’t?”

“What can I say? I was trained in the ladylike arts of mayhem and bloodshed. I leave the sewing and tatting and manly stuff to the menfolk.”

Spike laughed sharply. “God, I love you,” he breathed, almost disbelieving, and Buffy almost turned to look, almost said something back-- but then Drusilla attacked again, and the time for banter was over.

The battle raged on, blow after blow after blow, too rough for even a quip. Buffy and Spike somehow managed a staccato tag-team that kept his mad sire off-balance -- except that was all she was, off-balance, while Buffy was getting more bruised and battered with every moment, and Drusilla was still undamaged, had even turned their melee into a kind of ballet, like she was only dancing with them, even singing, mad songs about sunlight and shadow and parfait knights, until Spike was staggering and Buffy was starting to feel dizzy from the barrage, and still they danced on.

Buffy reacted too late to save Spike from a vicious flurry of red velvet and fangs that sent him crashing to the ground, bleeding profusely, and when she lunged in to try and land a knockout punch to Drusilla’s chin -- unconsciousness wasn’t technically an injury, right? That could work -- she found herself facing another slash of sharp claws and flashing teeth as Drusilla lunged bodily at her. She barely managed to duck, grabbing handfuls of the velvet dress to send Drusilla flying past. The velvet shredded gratifyingly. “Oh, no!” Buffy gritted out, saccharine sweet. “Did I do that?”

Drusilla didn’t answer that time, leaping with a growl -- only to fall on her face when Spike lunged from the ground and wrapped his arms around her ankles. Buffy saw her chance and leapt to straddle Drusilla’s back, shins trapping her thin white arms against the stone floor.

“The ring!” Spike wheezed, still wrapped around Drusilla’s flailing legs. “It’s the ring!”

“Yeah, I figured that out when you told everyone in the room earlier. Secret Squirrel you are not.” Buffy managed to capture Drusilla’s arm, though the vampire struggled like a python, bucking and writhing beneath her, and worked her grasp up to the hand where the ring gleamed, almost as hypnotic as Dru’s eyes. “Trust me, girlfriend, you’ll be thanking me for this fashion intervention later,” Buffy said cheerily, and wrestled the ring off.

Drusilla wailed, a long, drawn-out wail that sounded kinda like cats in boiling water -- or at least how Buffy imagined cats in boiling water might sound, since she’d never actually boiled a cat -- and she went limp beneath Buffy, her wail gradually dissolving into faint weeping. Buffy relaxed slightly, peering closely at the ring.

“Man, this thing is ugly,” she said at last.

Spike laughed brokenly behind her. “You should have seen the matching pendant.”

Buffy was turning her head to reply to him when she suddenly found herself tumbling, head hitting the stone floor with a crack. She instinctively wrapped her hand tight around the ring, dazedly looking up to see Drusilla standing, her red velvet gown in tatters, her face sad and cold. Spike was crumpled at her feet, groaning and rubbing his jaw.

“Poor Spike,” Drusilla said softly. “Even I can’t save you now.”

She whirled and ran, gone before Buffy could stumble to her feet.

Spike laughed and collapsed back onto the ground, and the pained wheeze he let out had Buffy stumble-crawling across the floor to his side.

“God, you look terrible,” she whispered, hesitating to even touch him. “Where does it hurt?”

He giggled loopily. “Be a shorter list to ask where it doesn’t hurt.”

Buffy rolled her eyes, weirdly relieved. “Fine. Where doesn’t it hurt?”

Spike grinned up at her and solemnly pointed at a single spot on his chest.

“Here?” Buffy poked it.

Spike winced. “Ow! Bloody hell!”

“You know, you could have just said ‘everywhere,’ asshole!”

“Got you to touch me, didn’t I?” he drawled smugly.

“Oh, I’ll touch you all right,” she growled, then laid a finger on his lips. “Does it hurt here?”

He stuck out his bruised lower lip in a pout. “Yeah.”

She leaned down until her lips were just inches away from his. “Want me to kiss it and make it better?”

He inhaled sharply. “Yeah.”

“Well, too bad!” Buffy sat up and folded her arms. “You know it’s a good thing your body is one big bruise, because that’s the only thing keeping me from breaking you in half! What were you thinking?”

He laughed again, eyes soft and fond. “There was thinking?”

“Do you want me to list all of the things I’m pissed off about? ‘How do I want to punch you in the nose, let me count the ways!’”

“Let me know when you’re done making your list and I’ll add in a few more.” He tried to sit up again and groaned. “Bloody hell, that hurts.”

Buffy looked at him silently. “Will… will this help?” She proffered the ring she’d taken off Dru.

Spike looked at the ring for a long moment, almost confused. “Dunno,” he said at last.

“Want to try?” She bit her lip. “Um, unless you think it’s going to hurt worse than--”

“‘Course it’ll bloody hurt.” He met her gaze then, his eyes naked, and he grinned. “Not the good kind of hurt, if you know what I mean.”

Weirdly, she did. “Yeah, well,” she said archly, “you can’t have any of _that _until I know you aren’t likely to puncture a lung in the process.”

“That sounds an awful lot like a threat.”

“It’s a promise, stupid.”

“All right.” He held out his hand. “Do it. Do it quick. Like pulling off a plaster.”

“Ugh, is plaster something gross in England-English?”

He laughed, high and painful. “It’s a bandage, love. In too much pain to talk dirty to you right now.” He gritted his teeth. “Just do it.”

His fingers were all swollen from the fight -- thank god none of them looked broken! -- so she slipped the ring on his pinky, quickly, and as soon as it passed his first knuckle, he arched back, crying out in agony.

“My nose!” he gasped. “Get my nose straight!”

“Geez, ego much?” Buffy grumbled, but she reached out and straightened his nose; it crunched and healed into its usual slope. “Better?”

“Much,” he gasped, shuddering as his bruises and contusions healed before her eyes.

“Good.” She rabbit-punched him in the nose.

“What the bloody hell, bitch!”

“That’s for lying to me, asshole!” she yelled, and then she tenderly straightened the broken nose and kissed the tip as it healed again. “Well, this is handy. My very own self-healing punching bag.”

Spike rolled his eyes, even as he continued to twitch with spasms of healing. “Yes, _there’s _a bright promise for the future,” he groused.

“Oh, I wasn’t planning on hurting you. Much.” Buffy stroked his chest soothingly as the tremors worked their way through him, until he was mostly back to normal, just a little zing shaking him here and there, and she bent down to kiss him.

“So you did mean it,” she murmured against his lips.

He ducked up to kiss her back, hard. “Perhaps.”

“Say it again. I need to see your eyes.”

He lay back and looked up at her like she was a miracle, a vision, the goddamn Chosen One. “I love you, Buffy.”

“I knew it,” she giggled, laying herself across his chest for more smoochies. “You are a terrible liar.”

He pulled back from her kisses, looking offended. “What? I’m a brilliant liar. Fooled Dru, didn’t I?”

“Uh-huh. That’s why you went all vamp-faced when you started your Pinocchio act, is it? Because you’re such a fantastic liar?”

He sniffed defensively, caressing her hair. “That’s different. Was acting, wasn’t I? Had to put on my costume. That’s how it’s done.”

“Uh-huh. And it had nothing to do with the fact that your lying tell is, I don’t know, your entire face?”

“Oi!”

Buffy shut his protests down with another kiss. The smooches were just starting to get good when she heard it.

A throat clearing.

“Bugger,” Spike muttered against her lips. “What’s the wanker want _now_?”

But Buffy shoved herself away because, oh yeah, they were still in an underground lair that had, last she checked, been chock full of vampires, so maybe not the best place to kiss, and also Angel was obviously there, so that was a loose end needed wrapping up and sending back to LA, and _also _also, she was suddenly reminded that Spike had some serious ‘splaining to do so they could figure out if she needed to hurt him in the good way or the not-so-good way. That was probably important.

She looked down at him sternly. “How are you feeling?”

He put on a thoughtful face. “Well, my spleen--”

“Okay, your spleen can finish up on its own.” She slipped the Gem of Amara off his pinky finger before he could protest. “I’ll just be taking this.”

He glared. “I had plans for that!”

“Oh, really? What plans?”

“Well,” Spike said with an evil grin, “first I was going to get you naked in the sunlight--”

“So you don’t need it right now,” Buffy interrupted, feeling her face grow hot.

“Well, no.” He pouted.

“All right then. I am claiming this as my spoils of war. My pirate’s booty.” She tucked the ring in her jacket pocket. Yeah, she totally needed more pockets.

He curled his tongue against his teeth. “Mmm, yes, your _pirate’s booty_?”

“Oh, shut up, Spike.” Buffy rose awkwardly to her feet. _Too bad the Gem of Amara doesn’t work on humans, because owie!_

Angel was standing a couple yards away, giving her the puppy-dog eyes that she’d always melted for. She wasn’t melting, though, and that meant… something?

“I took care of the, uh, small fry,” he said awkwardly.

“Yeah. Um, thanks.”

“So.” He straightened his shoulders, glaring at Spike, who had rolled to his feet to stand a little behind her. “What’s going on?”

“Well. It’s kind of a long story.”

“Not getting any older,” he said wryly, and she laughed, because yeah, that was the Angel she’d loved.

Loved. Past tense.

“I’ll make it short anyhow,” she said quietly. “Yeah, we did have a truce to… well, to get some kind of revenge on you. It was really Cordelia’s idea--”

“Cordy?” He looked confused. And a little hurt.

“Well, this was before she started working for you.” Buffy frowned. “Not that I knew she was working for you. Which is actually kind of weird, because she really does like to tell it like it is. She’s total honesty-girl. Why would she--?” She looked up at Angel suddenly, at the perplexed betrayal on his face, and _whoa._ Epiphany time.

“This was _Cordelia’s _idea?” he persisted.

Buffy shoved her epiphany on the back-burner. “Sort of. Her idea was, well, less Spike-having.”

“Okay.” He nodded, still looking like he didn’t get it.

“But that’s not important,” Buffy went on. “The actual short version is, Spike and I had a truce, and we agreed to pretend-date. Except, you know, we had to, um, do… stuff… so that when you came down we would… smell like… we did stuff….” Buffy took a deep breath. “Sorry. Still too long. Angel, I’m in love with Spike.”

“What?” Angel said disbelievingly.

“What?” Spike said, even more disbelievingly.

Buffy turned to him quickly. “Sorry. I should have told you first, not Angel.”

He smiled, dazed. “No. No, this is better.”

She turned back to Angel. “So, um, the start was kind of weird, and we have some kinks to work out--” Spike sniggered; she ignored it. “--but I really have moved on. I’m not… not waiting for you to earn me, or rescue me. I rescued myself, and I’m not some prize you can win by… by throwing ping-pong balls in enough goldfish bowls.” She took a deep breath and let it out. “No more games, no more acting… no more talk of destiny. I make my future, and my future... is with Spike.”

Angel opened his mouth like he was going to say something, then shut it again, eyebrows furrowing.

“And Angel?” Buffy smiled gently. “I really recommend you do something about your soul. See if you can find some way to get it, I don’t know, anchored, or override the curse-loophole, or something. Because I’ll warn you now, Cordelia is not going to put up with tortured, brooding celibacy.”

“What does Cordelia have to do with--” Angel broke off, looking even more confused.

“Yeah. Cordelia.” Buffy folded her arms. “You’re going to have to up your game if you want to land her. I may be the Slayer, but she’s the Dating Slayer.”

Angel broke into a half grin, helplessly.

“See!” Buffy waved a warning finger. “You almost got a little bit happy there!”

“Sorry.” Angel shoved his hands in his pockets, looking uneasily off to the side. “Look. I, um, I get that you want to make your own decisions. But if I’d known--” He sighed heavily, looking back at her. “Buffy, I left so that you could have a normal life. You were the only thing I’d found in the century since I was cursed with my soul that gave my life purpose, meaning. And I still… well, I thought you were my destiny.” His eyes bored into her intensely. “I still do.”

Buffy sighed. “Angel, remember that prophecy you and Giles found in that whatever Kodak? The one that said I was going to die? That was my destiny. And you know what? The prophecy was right. I did die. I came back, because I was lucky enough to have a friend who knew CPR and wasn’t willing to give up. So… maybe I am your destiny. Maybe we were destined to meet. I mean, I can’t really argue that destiny doesn’t exist, not when I’m the Chosen One. I was destined to become the slayer. You were destined to become the vampire with a soul. From what I can tell, Spike was destined to become a royal pain in my ass.”

“Hey!”

“You are and you love it,” Buffy tossed over her shoulder. She turned back to Angel. “But becoming is different from being, it’s different from living and fighting and doing. Someone really smart-- okay, it was Cordelia. She was talking about some guy named Doyle, if that means anything to you.”

“It does,” Angel said quietly.

“Anyhow, she once told me that we all get what we get in life. Some of us get more, and some get less. But that doesn’t mean someone can’t change. It doesn’t mean they can’t choose to be something more.” Buffy held out her hand. “I mean, here’s my hand. It’s a pretty good hand, and it can do a lot of things. I can make it into a fist. I can hold a pen and write, or draw. I can even choose to make rude gestures, like the one Spike needs to stop doing _now _before I break his fingers. Seriously, I’m in the middle of a speech here.” She took a deep breath and blew it out. “So I guess what I’m trying to say is… we got handed a destiny. And that’s a good start. But now we get to decide what we’re doing with it. And you decided to leave, and go to LA, and… I guess you’re a detective now? Fighting the good fight?”

Angel nodded unwillingly. “I’m doing it for you,” he said fiercely.

“And that’s good,” Buffy said softly. “It’s good to do something for me, as long as ‘for me’ doesn’t mean that you expect me to be your prize when all the good deeds are done. You can do things in my honor, or in my memory, or even just to spite me, but that doesn’t mean you get _me._” She smiled wryly. “Destiny isn’t the end of the road, Angel. It’s the beginning. And I’m looking forward to seeing what you do with yours. But as for me… well, there’s one thing I feel very safe in saying I am one-hundred-percent _not _destined for, and that’s a normal life.”

Angel glared at Spike one more time. “Buffy, are you sure?”

“I’m sure.” She turned and glared over her shoulder at Spike; he was still grinning like he’d been hit a few times too many in the head. Which, to be fair, he had. “We have a few things to talk about, but… I’m sure.”

“He doesn’t have a soul,” Angel persisted.

“No, he doesn’t,” Buffy said firmly. “And memo to me, one of these days we’re going to have a symposium or something about what exactly a soul is and does. Giles will like that, he can do papers and footnotes and stuff. No, Spike doesn’t have a human soul. You want to know what he does have? Free will. And I don’t know if you noticed, but this guy without a soul just tried to sacrifice his existence to save both of us.” She raised her eyebrows challengingly, and Angel looked away.

“If you need help, I can always--”

“Come back? No. I mean, yeah, you can come visit sometimes, we can do lunch -- or midnight snacks, I guess -- but it sounds to me like you’ve chosen your path, and it’s a path outta here. You’re fighting the good fight. Helping the helpless. And I bet you feel like it gives your life purpose and meaning. Doesn’t it?”

“It does,” he admitted reluctantly.

“So there you go. Why would you want to go backwards when you’ve got that whole road to redemption in front of you? Me, I’m moving forwards. You should, too.”

“All right. I don’t like it, but… I get it.” Angel heaved a huge sigh. “Can I at least hit him before I go?”

“No.”

“Can I hit Angel?” Spike asked cheekily.

“_No. _Angel, you go back to LA, and Cordelia better have flowers on her desk when she comes in tomorrow. Also chocolates. Truffles. No cheap stuff. Got it?”

He sighed again. “Got it.”

“Don’t sound so depressed about it. Believe me, she’s worth your while. You should give her a raise, too. And Spike?”

“Yes, love?” He sounded _way _too smug; she turned to face him fully, glaring him down until he deflated a bit.

“We need to talk.”

“Oh, _bugger._”

*

Spike followed Buffy out of the lair, shoulder-to-shoulder with Angel, which was somewhere between brilliant and terrifying, because Angel was all brooding and depressed and Spike wanted more than anything to swagger because he’d fucking _won_, except Buffy had a stiffness to her back that boded poorly for the _talk_ they needed, and he was half-convinced that she was going to stake him the minute Angel was out of sight, keep on walking forward in those chunky-heeled boots that were made for it, find some other bloke to chain up and fuck. She might even use his chains. She might even let that lucky bastard chain _her _up in Spike’s chains, which was such a depressing thought he was tempted to just find a stake and do himself in.

Except she’d said it. She’d said it to Angel, and then she’d told Angel to get bloody bent, though she’d been kind about it because she was a bloody saint, and… she’d said it.

She’d said it.

God, it was a wonder he hadn’t dusted just from hearing the words on her lips.

So he swaggered, just a bit.

When they reached the surface, exiting through a huge culvert that fed into a wash near campus, Buffy turned around and looked at both of them, face impassive.

"Angel," she said quietly, "you'd better start driving. Dawn is only a couple hours away."

"My car's parked by your house. We could--"

Buffy glanced at Spike briefly before giving Angel a wry half-smile. "This is gonna take a while. You'd better go ahead."

Angel glared at Spike. "But I--"

"Do I have to make yet another speech? This is between me and Spike. Go. Home."

Angel looked at her for a long moment, then sighed. "Goodbye," he murmured, and headed off down the wash.

"Oh, _now_ he can say it," Buffy muttered under her breath before turning her glare back on Spike. "Come on. My purse is back at the crypt."

Spike fell in beside her, and they walked the opposite direction from Angel for several minutes. Buffy had her hands clasped behind her, so Spike shoved his in his jeans pockets, wishing he'd put on a bloody shirt. Not that he was cold, or embarrassed. He just felt… vulnerable.

"So," Buffy said at last. "I'm afraid I never collected enough Ovaltine labels to send in for my crazy-talk-to-English decoder ring, but I got the idea that I only know half the story. Want to fill in the gaps for me?"

"How much do you want to know?"

She slanted him a wry glance. "If you tell me everything, how much will I want to kill you?"

He thought about it. "Quite a lot," he admitted.

"That's what I figured. So let's start with what I know. When last we met our evil anti-hero -- that's you, by the way -- he was headed to South America to torture his ex into not being an ex. How'd that go for you, by the way?" She sounded perfectly polite, like she was asking about his day on the golf course.

Two could play at that game. "Reasonably well," he breezed. "But it didn't last."

"Obviously," she snorted. "Okay. And then there was a map to buried treasure. A fabled ring of vampire immortality. And… you and Dru hit the road to Sunnydale?"

"Just me," he admitted. "Dru had moved on."

"Huh." Buffy frowned. "She didn't come with?"

"First I knew she was in town was the same time you did."

Buffy stopped in her tracks. "But you said you could handle the Mistress."

"Well yeah," Spike muttered. "Because I thought it was bloody Harmony."

"You know _Harmony_?"

"Hey, I broke up with her the night we agreed--"

"You _dated_ Harmony?" Buffy started to laugh. "Oh, my god. Were you the boyfriend she was telling Willow about?"

Spike glared at her. "Maybe."

She managed to stifle her laughs. “That’s… I don’t even know how to process that. You and Harmony. Did you lose a bet?”

He rolled his eyes. “Is this what you wanted to talk about? You really want to know how Harmony and I got together?” Not that it was a long story -- he dimly recalled saying “Wanna fuck?” and she’d said “Sure!” and then she’d hung around after and been generally convenient the next time he’d wanted a shag, and so on. No Wuthering Heights, that.

“No,” Buffy snorted. “Well, not now. Maybe later, some time when we’re both drunk.”

“Right then.”

Buffy frowned. “So what happened to Harmony?”

Spike sighed. “Reading between the lines of Dru’s little soliloquy, I’d wager she got dusted.” Off Buffy’s confused look, he clarified. “The pink thief?”

“Oh.” Buffy sighed. “She did really like pink. I’m... not sure how I feel about that. I mean, I was going to stake her myself, but, well, she did sign my yearbook, and she helped us with the Mayor-snake. That’s probably how she got vamped.”

“She wanted me to kill Willow for her,” Spike pointed out. “And you.”

“Okay. Then I think good riddance.”

“With any luck, Dru offed her little vamp boy-toy, too. Some pretentious wanker with a ridiculous name. Porter? Parkins?”

Buffy froze. “Parker?”

“You know him? He was a real piece of work, even for a vampire. All he could think about was his next shag.”

“Like you’re one to talk.”

“I have better taste.”

“Like Harmony?” Buffy giggled again, waving a hand when Spike glared at her. “Sorry. I’ll stop. I’ll stop. It couldn’t be the guy I’m thinking of, though. Parker was a gentleman. And human.”

Spike decided it was wiser not to mention just when Parker had been sired, by whom, and what Harmony had said about him beforehand. Just in case.

“Okay,” Buffy said when she’d got her giggles out. “So our hero follows the yellow brick road to Sunnydale. And you got together a gang of vampire miners and started digging. Ooh, did you ever make them all sing ‘Workin’ in a Coal Mine’ like Devo?”

Spike gritted his teeth. “Enjoying this, are you?”

Buffy folded her arms. “I’m trying to find humor in the situation instead of killing you. Got a problem with that?”

“No, no problem,” Spike said hastily. “Yeah, I had the boys do a rousing musical number every night. Good for morale.”

“And you found what you were looking for.” Buffy started walking again; Spike fell in at her side.

“I did.”

They walked in silence for several minutes, all across the cemetery, retracing the path of their abduction. Spike’s hand was on the door of their crypt when Buffy broke the silence. “When?”

“When what?” He pushed open the door, and oh god, the musky scent of their lovemaking was still thick in the air; his eyes closed briefly as he stepped in. Half the candles had guttered out, or been knocked over in the melee of their capture, but otherwise it was still just as they’d left it.

She followed him in, catching him by the elbow before he had taken more than a couple steps. “When did you find the Gem?”

He turned and looked at her, caught off guard. “Oh, uh… October?”

“So before Halloween?” she pressed, stepping closer, and the warm fragrance of her skin hit him like a blow.

“Yeah,” he said thickly, attempting a casual shrug. “Must have been.”

She looked up at him, eyes dark and unfathomable. “So why didn’t you kill me?”

“I meant to,” he said, feeling his jaw twitch. “Put the ring on, felt its power coursing through me. Knew I could do anything. Came up to the surface, walked in the sunlight, and I waited for you.” He ghosted his hand along her hair, remembering. “You were different in the sunlight. Mesmerizing. You glowed. I followed you to your first class, and the next.”

She swallowed, edging closer. “And you didn’t kill me.”

“Obviously,” he snorted, looking off at the candles, missing his shirt again.

“Why not?” she persisted.

“Didn’t bloody want to,” he growled, suddenly furious at himself.

Buffy took his hand then, warm fingers curling around his. “And because of Angel?”

Spike’s eyes flew back to hers, to that unreadable, beautiful, infuriating face. “What? What’s bloody Angel got to do with--”

“You told Drusilla you wanted to kill me in front of Angel,” Buffy said quietly.

Bloody hell, he had. He shrugged defensively, scoffing. “Well, yeah. Bloody wanker. Of course I wanted him to be there to see you die. That was the plan.”

She nodded thoughtfully. “So why didn’t you call him?”

“I did call him,” Spike pointed out.

Buffy’s eyebrows shot up. “In October?”

“No, just the other--” Spike broke off, frowning sullenly. This was not going the way he’d expected, and this calm interrogation, here where he’d debauched her time and time again, here where they’d been bare to each other in every possible way -- it was unsettling. Was she going to kill him or not?

God, maybe she was just going to... leave. Tell him to bugger off, and leave him alive, alive and alone and starving for her. Staking would be kinder.

But Buffy’s hands were on his bare chest then, caressing him, and he heaved in a quick gasp at her touch, eyes drifting closed. “So,” she said in a teasing voice. “You had the Gem of Amara for six or seven weeks before it ever occurred to you to call Angel and get him down here so that you could kill me in front of him and bring the treasure back to your lover in South America. Six or seven weeks that you could have been killing humans all you wanted.”

“I didn’t call him for that,” Spike defended, setting his hands on her hips, stroking the fabric of her skirt against her hot skin. “I called him because… because you wanted it to end. It had to end.”

“I told Cordelia for the same reason,” she replied, hand coming up to stroke his cheek. “That was always the plan.” Her eyes narrowed. “Was it always your plan to kill me?”

“Well, yeah,” he admitted.

“And you… forgot this was the plan?” she teased.

Spike growled. “So I’m bloody stupid.”

“I don’t think you’re stupid,” Buffy said, hands slipping up around his neck. “In fact, I know you’re not stupid. You don’t usually think before you act, or before you speak, and sometimes you say or do the wrong thing, or trip over your own feet, but you’re not stupid.” Her fingers sank into the short hair at the nape of his neck. “I may call you stupid sometimes, but that’s just because you like it so much.”

He raised his eyebrows, grinning. “Bitch.”

“Asshole,” she crooned, and then her lips were on his, and she was kissing him like a miracle.

He groaned into her mouth, then broke away hands coming up to cradle her face. “I love you,” he said raggedly. “I loved you already, even then. I couldn’t kill you, not in the sunlight or the dark.” He kissed her hard. “Dru knew. She knew it, was making noise about it before she even gave me the bloody map. Earlier. God, she must have known….” He looked at Buffy, arrested. “She said I was covered in you.”

Her eyebrows shot up. “Well, yeah, she did. She said a lot of wackadoo things back there.”

“No, not just now. Before. When she left me. Not this time, the first time.” Spike’s mind raced back and back, wondering just how long he had been in love with Buffy. Walking beside her, their truce barely minted, unaccountably pissed that her golden hair was hidden under that black winter hat… watching her fight on their ceiling-mounted telly, rewinding the tape over and over again… fighting her in a darkened school hallway, the air ripe with her scent… watching her dance to some pretentious indy nothing band as he circled the dance floor, eyes riveted on her lithe body, her hair, her smile….

_I can't see her. The Slayer. I can't see. It's dark where she is. Kill her. Kill her, Spike. Kill her for me? Kill her for princess?_

Had Dru known even then?

He was startled out of his reverie by Buffy’s hands firmly grabbing his ass.

“Earth to Spike,” she laughed, pressing her body up against his, and he wrapped his arms around her back, crushing her close.

“I love you,” he breathed into her hair.

She leaned back in his embrace, brushing her lips against his in a fragile kiss. “I love you, too,” she said softly, wrapping herself around him, her tongue hot against his, and he gave himself over to it, shoving his thoughts of time away.

_I can do the math later, _he thought dizzily.

When she stopped to breathe, he had to ask, just in case.

“Does this mean you aren’t going to kill me?”

“Maybe.” She stepped away from his embrace, walked to her purse where she had shed it earlier in the evening, unzipped and rummaged and finally pulled out his promise crystal.

Spike approached her, gazing at the crystal. “I swear to thee--”

“I know you’ve kept your promise,” Buffy interrupted, face serious. “I’m asking for the future. Because if we want to move forward, this is what I need. I know it’s asking a lot, but I can’t be the slayer if I’m letting you kill.” She gave him a challenging glare. “As it is, I’m kicking myself over not putting in a minion clause. I’d kick _you_, except I think you may have already learned that lesson via multiple contusions.”

“Right.” Spike sighed. “Should have taken care of that myself weeks ago. Wasn’t really thinking. No bloody minions.” He closed her fingers over the crystal, wrapped both of his hands around her fist. “I’ll do better. I promise. I may not be good, but… like you said, I have free will.” He grinned cheekily. “And I can be trained. Go on, give me a biscuit.”

Buffy smiled, tucking the crystal away again and dropping the purse. “I’ve got something better.”

And she stepped forward into Spike’s arms.

He hadn’t done the math on this, either, how many times he’d kissed the pulse in her throat, how many gasps he’d wrung from her lips, how many shudders she’d sent through him at the barest touch of her fingers, but as she sank with him into their soft haven, it felt like nothing he’d ever felt before, like his universe had begun just this instant, and yet was already spiraling out into eternity, a galaxy of stars, all with one name, her name, and he murmured it over and over again into her soft skin as she sighed out of her clothes until she was all bare, bruises from their battle like badges of honor on her golden skin. He kissed each of them in turn, honoring her courage, her strength; he curved his hands around her breasts, her thighs, licked the dried sweat and tears from her trembling cheeks, inhaled the exotic scent of her hair.

“I love you,” he whispered again and again into every inch of her. “I love you.”

And _I love you_ she sighed into his hair and his lips and his throat, and he nearly wept.

He winced in shame when his pilgrimage of her holy places brought him to the ugliness on her shoulder, twin puncture wounds crusted with blood.

“God, I’m sorry,” he breathed, lips feathering gently over the sore flesh, in penance. He’d yearned for the taste of her blood for so long, but in the end it had tasted like ashes.

She hugged him fiercely. “You kept me alive,” she said in a low voice. “You kept us all alive. I forgive you.”

He groaned and let her push him down into the cushions, trembling as she rose over him, warm and glowing in the candlelight.

She toyed with him, removing his jeans inch by cursed inch, lips tracing each fraction of exposed skin until at last he was naked before her, shuddering at her touch, and he watched in a daze as she took him into herself, slowly, arching her back, her sleek belly taut and quivering as his cock filled her, and dear god, she was so wet, so hot, so everything, and he shook and shook, thrusting up into her as she rode him, her hot eyes on his like arrows, like swords, she was fire and flame and glory, and when she cried out his name, her thighs and fingers spasming with ecstasy he growled and rolled her over, thrusting mindlessly into her heat while she laughed up at him, boneless and replete, and when he spilled in her, nearly blacking out from the ecstasy, she held him to her breast and soothed his shivers, and he wrapped his arms around her and this time he did weep, not caring, because a dozen times tonight he’d thought it would end, that she would fall, that he would dust, that she would treat him as he deserved and go off into the harsh light of day without him, and instead she was here, and he was here, and she loved him.

Of course he wept. Of course.

When he’d come back to himself enough to remember that he was the fucking Big Bad and he should pretend that he had a smidgen of pride, he rolled onto his back, taking her with him, cuddling her up against his chest.

“I knew you loved me,” he whispered in her ear.

“I knew you loved me first,” she whispered back, just as smug.

“All right,” Spike said agreeably. “You win.” He might as well get used to her winning, though he wasn’t ever going to make it easy on her. He had a reputation to uphold.

Buffy sighed happily, tracing aimless shapes on his chest. “I guess tomorrow we should go back and make sure there aren’t any stragglers Angel missed.” She frowned. “And you should find a better place to live. Because that lair was kinda skeezy.”

“I’ll have to get my things, then,” Spike said, knowing he’d live on the bloody moon if Buffy asked it of him.

“What things?”

“Books, weapons. Souvenirs. Clothes. Music.” He stroked her back. “M’ vinyl collection alone is worth a pretty penny these days.”

Buffy looked Spike up and down, askance. “Vinyl? I mean, I suppose it’s cheaper than leather…”

He chuckled. “Not vinyl clothing, love. Records. First press, every one of them, and in pristine condition. Beatles, Sex Pistols, GoGos, all sorts. You should have seen what I had to do to smuggle them out of Prague.”

She wrinkled her nose. “You know, you can get all that on CD nowadays. Hard to even find a record player.”

“CDs are all right, but they got no blood, no teeth. Takes all the joy out of the music. You just watch. Vinyl will be making a comeback one of these days. Everyone will have a record player again.”

Buffy rolled her eyes indulgently. “Yes, just like we’ll all have long, shaggy beards. And the plague.”

Spike rubbed his chin. “Fancy a bit of facial hair, do you? Takes some work for a vamp, but if that’s what you want….”

“Definitely not.” Buffy bit her lip. “So, where are you gonna put your things when we get them?”

Spike made an expansive gesture with his hand. “Was thinking here.”

“Seriously?” She looked more intrigued than disbelieving.

“Why not? Got all the amenities -- ‘cept running water, but that could be arranged. Got linens, tea, chains. What more could a vampire ask for?”

“Someone to share it with?” Buffy hinted coyly.

Spike shrugged elaborately. “Yeah, but where am I going to find someone willing to take on a bad dog like me?”

She flashed a wicked grin at him, and before he could react she had his wrists pinned to the floor, her thighs on either side of his chest. “You know, you’d look good in a collar.” She lay her body down along his, her lips brushing his ear. “I think I’d like to have you on a leash.”

He struggled against her grip, grinning. “I think I’d like to see you try.”

She sat up again, a secret smile on her face. “I have a proposition for you, Spike.”

“I have an answer for you,” he replied silkily.

The answer was yes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There’s an epilogue on the way.


	22. Epilogue

“My answer is no!” Buffy said firmly, glaring at Spike.

It had been a week since the Drusilla Incident. A week since Buffy had sent her first love packing, swallowed her pride and her qualms and some other things she blushed to think about and accepted Spike as her actual, no-more-pretending, needs-a-little-training boyfriend. And to be fair, it had been a pretty fantastic week.

Cordelia had called her two days after said Incident, a couple of hours before sunset.

“Okay,” she had said without preamble. “You have to tell me what happened, because I am officially creeped out. When I got to work last night there were flowers and chocolates on my desk, and Angel wouldn’t even look at me, except when I wasn’t looking, and then after we’d sat around long enough to decide we weren’t getting a real job, Angel went out and staked every punk vampire he could find at Whisky a Go Go -- I know because he made me drive -- and _then _he got drunk as a frat boy and passed out on my couch for the day. He still smells like booze! I just convinced him to take a frickin’ shower, so I only have, like, twenty minutes. What gives?”

Buffy had relayed a slightly-condensed version of events, which had turned into a less-condensed version of events as Cordelia wheedled certain key kinda-embarrassing details out of her, and had finished up with a question.

“Cordelia, how do you feel about Angel?”

Cordelia’s stammering non-reply had been both satisfying and entertaining, after the months Buffy had spent on the other end of the interrogation.

“Don’t worry,” Buffy had said after she felt Cordelia had suffered enough. “He’ll figure it out eventually.”

After some debate, she and Spike had decided to come clean to the Scoobies about the truth of their relationship, just because they were bound to find out sooner or later, between Cordelia and Angel. (And it sounded like Wesley was there in LA too? Except kinda badass? That was weird.) Anya had shrugged, Willow had looked confused for a few minutes and then shrugged, and Xander had spent a couple of minutes declaring “I knew it!” over and over before he finally shrugged, too. Giles had poured himself a large glass of some stinky brown booze, reluctantly pouring a skosh for Spike as well. Then they’d all ended up watching some Japanese cartoon about a pig flying a seaplane, which had inexplicably made Spike and Xander all teary. Spike had then spent a good hour of their foreplay time explaining just what the scene in Gina's private garden meant to him, during which he'd made her come three times.

So about as well as could be expected, actually.

Spike had accepted Joyce’s invitation for Christmas. Buffy was pretty sure the stammering adjunct who had taken over teaching Psych was going to give her an A, after that last paper she’d written about the id. And slaying had slowed down because apparently clearing out one of the largest vamp gangs in Sunnydale, even if they were mostly a bunch of vamp miners, served as a subtle hint to the local demon population to at least lay low for a while. Buffy would have sent Angel a fruit basket, if he ate fruit.

All in all, things in Sunnydale had been going gangbusters.

Until tonight.

Buffy shook her bound wrists, the heavy chains clanking heavily. “Release me!” she spat out, glaring at her adversary with pure venom.

The Dread Poet Spike turned to her with a mocking grin. “Ah, I fear I cannot,” he said in a voice like honeyed gravel. “I have been charged by the highest courts in the land with supervising your punishment for the crime of piracy. I fear you now serve at Her Majesty’s pleasure.” His eyes flared intensely. “And at mine.”

“Bastard!” the Dread Pirate Buffy hissed, struggling against her restraints.

He clucked his tongue. “You really should mind your manners,” he said in that cultured, hateful voice. “You are, after all, at my mercy.”

She stood straight and tall, chin high, glaring at him. “I will never submit to you,” she said proudly.

He prowled towards her, slow and sinuous. “Will you not?” he said softly. “Such a shame, when I have learnt your lessons so… very… well.”

“William…” she began.

“It’s Spike,” he said in a quiet, deadly voice, menace rippling through his body.

“Spike!” she corrected, quivering. “I order you to unlock these chains. You must release me!"

"Must I?" His eyes were dark as the sea, and she felt tears springing to her eyes as he drew near.

Yet she could not deny him more, no matter how she detested him. "I hate you," she said weakly.

"Ah," he said into her ear, his body bare inches from hers, a gap she both feared and yearned he would close. "Do you hate me? Tell me truly."

She shook her head mutely, mistrusting her own voice when his compelling, seductive voice held her in his thrall.

He set his hand to her throat, loosely, but she knew he had the strength to crush her windpipe if he chose. "Do you?" he pressed.

She met his eyes, his threat making her bold. "I do. I hate you, Dread Poet Spike."

"Ah," he sighed, pressing his soft, detestable lips to her throat. “That makes this chance to torment you all the sweeter, then.”

She scoffed. “What does a poet know of torture?”

“What does a poet _not_ know of torture?” he countered, deliberately inhaling the scent of her skin, nibbling along the curve of her shoulder. “Especially this poet. For years I have been your prisoner, for years I have lived at your whim, my body wracked with pain and pleasure at your command.”

“Years?” Buffy’s eyebrows shot up.

“Years,” Spike said firmly, curving his hand around her cheek. When she looked away, he took her chin in his strong fingers, turning her to meet his eyes again. They were blue as the pitiless sky, deadly calm, and she was adrift. “Now,” he said in a hard voice, “now it is my turn.”

“Do your worst,” the Dread Pirate Buffy spat out, teeth clenched in resistance. “I will never give in. Never!”

His head rocked back, eyes searching her face. “Perhaps some sustenance would make you more amenable? I have a fine array of victuals to tempt you with. Crackers, meat….”

She tossed her hair, glaring him down. “I would not eat from your hand were it the finest French cuisine! You can take your crackers, your meat, and your _dairy products_ and throw them over the side of the ship for all I care!”

“Very well.” He ran his hands down the length of her trembling body, and she shuddered as a wave of desire swept through her. “Remember my offer later on, when you beg for mercy.”

“I will never beg for mercy!”

He grinned then, slowly, eyes darkening. “Ah, but you will, my pet. You have no idea what I have planned for you, no idea what’s to come.” He stepped in close, so close she could feel his body trembling with anticipation. “But you will learn.”

She watched him warily as he stepped back, his eyes raking her from head to toe. He was still in the loose shirt and breeches he’d worn during his long imprisonment, though he had set his spectacles aside, and he looked altogether dangerous, the monster she had created unleashed at last. After a long perusal that made her shiver with anticipation, he unsheathed the knife at his belt, its wicked length gleaming in the candlelight. Her heart nearly stopped.

“So,” she bit out defiantly. “You plan to avenge yourself through murder.”

He chucked. “Nay, milady. Though your blood would be a pretty sight to behold, like rubies on your golden skin.” He approached her again, the blade held at his side. “I merely mean to set you free.”

He set the knife to the silken laces of her corset and she felt it loosen as he severed each crossing of the cords, one by one, down and down until finally he sliced through the last and the stiff, boned brocade fell to the ground around her booted feet. He deliberately set the blade of the knife between his teeth, grinning, and curved a hand around each breast. She moaned as his thumbs abraded her sensitive nipples through the soft fabric of her chemise, arching into his touch despite herself, watching his long, hard fingers as they worked, until at last he took the knife in his hand and stepped away again.

“There,” he said softly, eyes glittering with desire. “Have I not eased you?”

“You monster,” she said fiercely, and he frowned and bunched his hand in the front of her chemise, walking backwards and dragging her step by step until she was far enough from the wall that the long chains stretched her arms, forcing her to arch her back. He set the knife to the white fabric, rending it from neck to waist, until it hung about her shoulders and her breasts were bare to him. He sheathed the knife.

“You may call me a monster,” he said silkily. “But your body sees me as a man.” He set one hand to the small of her back, arching her breasts up to his greedy hand, and then he bent to her and sucked hard on her nipple, making her cry out in despair. Or was it desire? She was no longer quite sure, except that she could not bear to pull away, thrusting her breasts forward to beg more, more of his cool, demanding mouth, her body all too willing to do that which her voice decried.

He laughed then, wickedly, the vibrations sending jolts of lightning through her, from her breasts to her fingers and toes, and oh god, she wanted more, she needed more, except he was content to sip at her breasts, fondling them in a way that was both urgent and lazy, like he had all the time in the world.

“Get on with it,” she muttered at last, and he laughed again.

“Nay,” he breathed into her nipple, blowing cool air on the wet tracks his mouth had left; the sudden cold made her shake. “Nay, I’ll eat my fill of these glorious breasts, make you feel the hunger of my years, and you, my sweet pirate, will endure. He looked up at her, challenging. “Unless you wish to beg?”

“Never!”

The knife was in his hand again, and she watched dizzily as he slid it inside the hanging remains of her chemise, the sharp edge slicing through the thin fabric like it was nothing. He sliced precisely along each sleeve to her wrist -- she tried to turn her head to watch but _be still _he ordered in his lowest, silkiest voice, and she stared ahead of her as she felt first one arm bared, then the other, and then he was before her again, a finger hooked in the waistband of her ruffled skirt, and then the knife sliced through that as well, and the fabric pooled at her feet.

“Ah, you are wicked to the last,” he said softly, one hand stroking down her belly. “A true lady would have layers of petticoats, stockings, garters.” His fingers tangled in the dark curling hair, barely stroking the lips of her cunt. “Knickers.”

“Duh,” she managed to say, swallowing. “Pirate.”

He clucked his tongue. “So shameless you are, your quim all wet and swollen and hungry for my touch.” His fingers traced her seam, maddeningly gentle. “Do you want it?” he asked, his voice rough.

“No!” she scoffed loudly, but she tilted her hips to his fingers, legs widening, exposing her lie for the false bravado it was.

“You will,” he said, voice thick with satisfaction, and then he tossed the knife aside, eyes glowing as he regarded her. He walked around to one side and then the other, eyes tracing every curve of her, and she bit her lip, wanting nothing more than for him to touch her again, wanting him and hating him all at once.

He finally stood before her, bare inches away, his hands feathering over her hair. “Perhaps I should declaim a poem,” he said, gazing down at her face, jaw twitching. “That was how you loved to torment me best, was it not? Make me bare my art to you, my very self, and bend it to your vile torture.”

She laughed cruelly. “Yes, _William._ Do favor me with your verse. I am in dire need of something to laugh at, to ease my boredom.”

“Will you laugh?”

“Aye,” she said, chin high, though she shivered at the menace in his voice.

“Then laugh, lying wench,” he said. “I will know the truth from your body, how it surrenders to me despite your protestations, how it screams the truth of your hunger for me.”

Her shoulders were screaming now, stretched back for so long, and she shuddered in relief as Spike set his hands to her hips and walked her back, just a step or two, until her hands were by her sides, the chains hanging heavy on her wrists. He lifted one hand to his lips, kissing her fingers, gently massaging the skin that had chafed.

“I am no liar,” she said weakly. “I hate you.”

“You love me,” he said into her quivering palm.

God, his tenderness was sharper than his knife. “No,” she whispered.

He walked around behind her, pressing his body up against her back, the fabric of his loose shirt rough against her skin. He was cool as marble, and she felt suffused with heat, her face burning, her body feverish and hungry. God, he was right, she craved his touch, and she held her breath, awaiting the words he had promised.

His hands slid around her ribcage, soothing her skin, and he stroked them along her, from her chest down past her hips, slowly traversing every contour as he spoke. “Body of a woman,” he breathed in her ear, in his dark, rich poet’s voice, “white hills, white thighs.”

She sank back against him, mesmerized, as his arms wrapped around her belly, and he chuckled.

“When you surrender, you stretch out like the world.” He walked back with her in his embrace, one step, then another, and then he was sinking down and she sank with him, laying down amid the soft cushions, until she was on her back, her head in his lap, her arms stretched out up and to the side, and he was gazing down at her, his face upside down, jaw working with emotion.

“My body, savage and peasant, undermines you,” he said raggedly, “and makes a son leap in the bottom of the earth.” He eased her to the ground between his thighs, hands cradling her head, and then he prowled around her, arranging her body to his liking, and she watched him, panting, until he reached his destination, kneeling between her spread legs, his gaze upon her.

He reached out then and stroked her belly, tender, watching his own fingers. “I was lonely as a tunnel. Birds flew from me. And night invaded me with her powerful army.” His hands slid up to her breasts, hard and relentless, and she was writhing under his touch now, enspelled by his hungry voice, and then he leaned forward and kissed her belly, lips as tender as his hands were demanding, and she felt herself trembling.

“Spike,” she whispered unwillingly. “God, Spike….”

He kissed down along her hip, then along her thigh, hand hooking her knee up so he could run his lips along the inside, and his tongue. “To survive I forged you like a weapon,” he groaned into her skin, “like an arrow for my bow, or a stone for my sling.”

And then he stretched his body atop hers, his eyes inches away, blazing into hers. “But now the hour of revenge falls, and I love you.”

She opened her mouth to reply but he kissed her, deep, his hands suddenly urgent on her flesh, kneading and pinching and rolling, and oh god, she was on fire, his hands warmed now by her, and she let the words roll over her as he unleashed his passion, gasping out words between fervent kisses.

“Body of skin,” he moaned, “of moss... of firm and thirsty milk! And the cups… _god_... of your breasts! And... your eyes... full of absence!”

He sat up then, eyes wild, and brought both hands to her center, stroking hard through her wetness, and she bit back a curse because _holy god _she was sensitive, her hips jerking mindlessly into his touch.

“And the roses of your mound!” he whispered, eyes on his hands as he worked her up to a frenzy, thumb vibrating against her clit. “And your voice slow and sad!”

His eyes met hers then, and he grinned madly, sinking down down down and addressing his words to her cunt. “Body of my woman, I will live on through your marvelousness.”

He licked her once, and again, startling a low cry from her throat.

“My thirst--”_ lick _“--my desire without end--”_ lick _“--my wavering road!”

“God!” Buffy moaned, her head falling back, eyes closing, her world narrowed down to nothing but his mouth, his words, his tongue, her thighs twitching madly as he drove her up and up, sucking on her clit before he went on, voice vibrating up through her belly and her chest and all the way out to her fingertips, and she was clutching at the chains now, holding on for dear life as she hitched her hips into his mouth.

“Dark river beds... down which… down which the eternal thirst is… is flowing,” he growled desperately into her as she approached her peak, tongue lapping at her, fierce and thirsty, “and the fatigue... is flowing… _fuck_... and the grief... without... shore….” oh god, she was almost there, she could feel the tingles starting, rippling out like water, oh god oh god oh _god_\--

And he stopped, the glorious strokes of his tongue gone in an instant.

Buffy felt her incipient orgasm start to fade and she hauled herself up on the chains with a guttural cry of frustration, eyes flying open. He was kneeling between her legs, face glistening with her juices, his teeth bared in a wild-eyed smile, and he laughed at her rage.

“Feeling the torment yet, love?” he said in a high, ragged voice.

“You bastard!”

His eyebrows shot up. “Are you ready to beg?”

“No!” She heaved in a deep breath, willing her body to calm down. It didn't work. “I will never beg you, no matter how much awful poetry you read me! Your poetry sucks!”

Spike laughed again, eyes dancing, and Buffy laughed too, falling out of character just for a moment, because… because this was what she’d wanted, this joy and this playfulness and, yes, this torment. And she let herself be just Buffy for a moment, let that joy shine out, and he stroked her cheek, eyes wondering and elated, before he hardened again into the Dread Poet Spike and the Dread Pirate Buffy fixed a sneer on her face, and she looked him up and down with contempt.

“Is that all you’ve got?” she asked haughtily.

“Ah, no, my cruel mistress,” he crooned menacingly. “There’s more.”

He stood, lithe muscles coiling and flexing like a panther, and slowly, methodically, untied the cuffs of his loose shirt, then smoothly drew it off over his head. The breeches were the type with two rows of buttons, one on each hip, and Buffy watched avidly, feeling her breath speed up as he slowly unbuttoned one side, then the other, letting the flap fall at last to reveal his erect cock.

Despite her mouth watering at the sight of his arousal, she sniffed derisively. “Am I supposed to be impressed?”

He smiled, sliding the breeches off his hips. “You well know my talents, milady. I never gave you cause to make me walk the plank.” He stood straight, hands on his hips. “You were always… satisfied. Or so you said.”

She smiled coyly. “Ah, but I am _such_ a liar…”

“You are indeed,” he said. “But perhaps tonight I can persuade you to honesty.”

The Dread Pirate Buffy wrapped her hands in her chains, pulling herself up to watch as he fetched something from the table behind him. “Persuade? That’s a fine way to talk about torturing me.” God, his ass was beautiful, though she’d not admit such to her jailor; she eyed it hungrily, the shadows and contours defined by the candlelight, wishing her hands were free so she could cup them, dig her fingers in, get him to soothe her frustrations by pounding inside her...

He turned back then, and what he held in his hand made her mouth go dry.

A lit candle.

“I think you’ll enjoy my… persuasion,” he murmured, walking towards her. “When I knew you were to be… released to my care… I procured these for the occasion.” He held a few unlit in his other hand, she saw now -- simple white tapers, not the beeswax candles or scented pillars that surrounded them in the prison cell. “They burn less hot than most -- you need not fear for scars, love -- but still, they burn.” His eyes were dark in the dim light, bottomless. “Just as I burn for you.”

Buffy shifted uncomfortably. “And you, uh, burn me… with them?”

He smiled. “No flame will touch your skin, my sweet.” He tilted the candle to one side, catching a bead of dripping wax on the back of his other hand. “Though I daresay you will find it torture enough. Not knowing where it shall land, or from how far.” He took a step closer, and another. “Now will you beg?”

She relaxed slightly, because okay, she’d read about this, just seeing the flame actually, well, flaming had startled her. She closed her eyes and sank back into character, opening them to regard her former prisoner with scorn.

“I will never beg,” she said proudly. “I am more than a match for your trivial, pedestrian antics, you… you… you _poet!_”

He hummed in response, as if he had expected nothing more from her than disdain. “Then lay back, my sweet bitch of a pirate, until I have brought you down to your knees.”

She raised her eyebrows. “I would have to go _up _to get to my knees,” she pointed out.

He blinked. “Yes. Well. My torment will make you want to _rise up_ to your knees to service me, in the vain hope that it will stop your, uh, torment.”

Buffy licked her lips. “Actually…” His cock did look especially delicious right now, all smooth and hard, a bead of moisture glistening at the tip….

He rolled his eyes. “Bloody hell. Just let me bloody do this first, all right?”

She lay back again. “I guess I am your prisoner.” She tossed her hair. “You may visit your torments upon me, Dread Poet Spike, but you will never break my spirit!”

“I look forward to the challenge,” he purred, and sank down near her feet. “But never fear. I will treat you gently.” He lifted her booted foot, pressing a tender kiss to the inside of her ankle as he slipped the boot off. “At first.”

The first drop of wax, when it came, was both hotter and cooler than she expected, landing on the sensitive arch of her foot; she hissed and recoiled reflexively, but he held her ankle tight, dripping another drop, and another, and oh god, it was torture all right, right on the edge of pain, not quite going over, each droplet hot enough to make her wince yet cooling thereafter to a blissful warmth that spread out over her skin, and she felt warmth blossoming in her belly, in her cunt, even as she focused her attention on the sideways candle, watching with anticipation as each drip built and swelled and fell, then feeling the quick burn of its landing, then the spreading warmth, drip after drip after drip.

Spike moved from her feet up her legs, sending trickles of wax down her sensitive inner thighs, spots and dapples on her trembling stomach. He set his knees on either side of her waist, and she dizzily watched his cock bob just out of reach as he dripped wax on her extended arms from her sensitive wrists, to the tender insides of her elbows, to the quivering flesh of her armpits. He toyed with her throat, licking a long cool path of wetness with his tongue and following it with the drips of wax, draping her hair behind her to protect it. And he finally, finally moved back down to her heaving breasts, drop after drop on her hard, desperate nipples until he grinned and removed the result, little caps of wax with the impression of her nipples inside.

“Think I’ll have these cast in bronze,” he laughed. “To commemorate this day.”

She curled up one wax-festooned leg to run her foot along his ass. “You mean the day you failed to torture me effectively?”

She managed to make her voice light and taunting, but she was shaking from head to toe, the slow, sensual assault having driven her up to a fugue state of desire, always up and up and up but never quite reaching release, the jerk _poet_ always backing off just before she quite made it. She was going to go insane if he didn’t fuck her soon, and he knew it, the asshole, kept breathing in deep, his eyes flaring in appreciation of her scent.

“Failed?” He laughed wickedly. “Oh, love, I haven’t mentioned the best part.” He set his hands on either side of her ribcage, leaning over her, his glorious hard cock barely brushing her pubic hair, shifting his hips up and away when she tried to press into him.

“You want me to set you free,” he said harshly, jaw clenching convulsively. “You want me to bring you release. I can feel it in the way you tremble. You want me to drive my cock into your cunt, spread your thighs wide and taste that flood of nectar dripping from your delicious quim. But I won’t do it for you. I won’t give you what you want, you high and mighty bitch of a pirate queen.” He brushed a tender kiss across her lips. “Not unless you beg.”

“No,” she hissed fiercely. “I. Will. Not. Beg.”

“You know you want it,” he cajoled, dipping down to nibble on her ear.

“Never!” Her voice was faint even to her own ears; she shuddered at the feel of his teeth on her earlobe, her throat, her shoulder. “You will never break me!”

“Ah, love,” he whispered. “Who said I wanted you to break? _When you surrender, you stretch out like the world._ Surrender is not defeat, nor is it devastation. It is naught but _strategy,_ love.” He heaved up to meet her gaze, those eyes like the sea, like the sky, like nothing so beautiful as themselves. “Surrender to me, my warrior queen, and I will set you free to conquer me.”

Buffy felt something move inside her, like an avalanche, or a waterfall, inexorably, inevitably drawn by gravity into a beautiful crash of splendor. “Yes,” she whispered, and “_please,_” she begged, and “now!” she shouted, and Spike groaned and plunged his cock deep into her and she came like a thunderclap, quivering with the electric shocks of her release as he pistoned into her, his arms wrapping around her, bits of wax shattering and scattering from her skin. Her legs were shaking too much for her to even move them, and oh god oh god she screamed his name as he sent her plunging over another crest, and another. They were like a storm at sea together, waves and thunder and torrents and lightning, and he froze in a rictus of ecstasy above her as he spilled inside her, his cock throbbing and jolting, and then he was kissing her, kissing her with his sinful lips that could drip both poison and poetry with ease, and she was still shaking as he reached up and unlocked the manacles, massaging her wrists and her arms and her shoulders as he settled her back into the cushions.

She lay there in a daze as he stroked her and petted her, brushing the remains of the wax from her skin, settling her on a fresh, soft blanket and under another one, helping her sit up to drink some cool water, finally laying down beside her and cuddling her close, sinking with her into the calm, and finally she felt like maybe words were a thing that might actually exist.

“Wow,” she said.

“Yeah.”

“Wowza wow.”

“Yeah.”

“I mean… really… _wow_.”

He kissed her forehead. “You really have a way with words, love.”

She snorted. “Says the guy whose every other word is a swear word.”

He kissed her again, and again, like he couldn’t help it. “Profanity is an art like any other. It must be practiced regularly to be perfected.” He was still using his William voice.

Buffy didn't point it out. “Well, I, for one, am looking forward to your doctoral thesis on the various forms and usages of the word _fuck_.”

That earned her a kiss on the lips and a light smack on the bottom, and Buffy could feel her eyelids starting to droop now that she was warm and comfy and exhausted and snuggled up to her best guy, and there was something she wanted to say, but she was so sleepy, and she had class tomorrow, and-- well, she had pretty much said everything that needed to be said earlier, when she’d looked him in the eyes and smiled and handed him the key to the manacles.

She’d said it often enough over the past week that he knew.

And so did she.

*

Spike awakened slowly, vaguely aware that it was some time past dawn, but not too far past since Buffy’s beeper alarm hadn’t gone off. The crypt smelled of candles and lavender and sex, and Buffy was curled up beside him, naked under the soft blanket, her hair tangled and her skin flush with sleep, here and there a faint track of wax still on her skin.

No reason to wake her, not until her beeper alarm sounded. She’d a class or some such today, or so he vaguely recalled her saying before she’d near knocked him out by chaining herself up and requesting they revisit their roleplay from before. (She’d called it “Pirate Wars Episode II: Revenge of the Poet,” which had made him laugh, then say something sarcastic to keep from weeping, then fall enthusiastically in with her plans.) When she did get up, he supposed they’d head to her dorms for her to get showered and changed, and then he’d bide his time in some coffeeshop while she was in class, and then… well, then go on with the rest of the day’s usual routine. Socializing, patrol, amazing sex. God, he was lucky. Nothing had changed from a few weeks ago, on the surface, but underneath it all, everything had.

He held her a little bit closer. They’d had to address the elephant in the room, or rather the gaudy magickal costume jewelry in the pocket, and in the end Buffy had offered the Gem of Amara to Spike, and he’d promptly knelt at her feet and given it back to her, saying he didn’t deserve it, and also what was the fun of fighting without risk? And then she’d pointed out that she expected him to be putting in a lot of extra time as both boyfriend and patrol partner and it was going to be a lot easier if he could get about in the sun, and so they’d come to a compromise that the Gem was hers -- he’d bought her a sturdy chain to hang it about her neck -- and she would lend it to him during the day, and he would return it to her when the sun set, with a special extension in the case of nasty big bad and/or apocalypse (Buffy liked to plan ahead), and that seemed to be working well. Better than well -- fucking Buffy in the sunlight had been even more glorious than Spike had imagined, and exploring sunny Sunnydale had been revelatory. Daylight held all manner of birds and flowers and people he’d never seen, and when he’d said something to Buffy about it, she’d asked him to drive her to Goleta, where they’d stood in a grove of trees and watched thousands of monarch butterflies take flight, just at noon.

He’d stood there in awe, watching the masses of flickering wings on the trees, watched them split off individually, then in groups, then a rush, fluttering off to find their noon meal, and he’d realized he hadn’t seen a butterfly, a live butterfly, since before he’d been turned, and he’d ended up weeping in Buffy’s arms in the back seat of his DeSoto. The daylight held so much that he’d been robbed of. Hummingbirds. Rainbows.

Buffy.

He’d put a few feelers out at Willy’s, among those demons that would still give him the time of day, and he was fair certain Dru had moved on. Certainly she wasn’t still in Sunnydale; it was possible she’d gone to Los Angeles, but if so, she was Angel’s bloody problem now. He still thought fondly of her, now and again, and wished her well; he’d loved her for a century, after all, and it wasn’t her fault he’d been seduced by light and a Slayer who made him want to wear a white hat.

Well, grey. He was still bad. Just… pragmatic. Knew what side his bread was buttered on. Also a little bit whipped, but to be fair, Buffy was worth it.

Buffy’s beeper went off then, and he watched in fascination as she wriggled, then stretched, then reached out and grabbed the beeper, staring at it in a moment’s adorable confusion before she sighed and turned it off. Her eyes turned to him then, shy and just a shade uncertain, and he kissed her on the forehead and grinned.

“Morning, sunshine,” he said softly.

Except he didn’t.

He opened his mouth, and he said the words, he _did_, the air passed through his lungs and through his throat and across his lips, and he said it, except… no sound came out.

Buffy frowned faintly, opening her own mouth, and her lips moved like she was saying something, but he couldn’t hear her, not a syllable, and all right, so maybe he was deaf? Fucking hell. Maybe that was the ironic twist his life was going to take now, that he had regained light and sun but he was to lose sound, and oh god, bloody buggering fuck, did that mean he’d never hear music again? He had ended up buying CDs to replace the wreckage of his fucking vinyl collection -- bloody Harmony's handiwork, most likely, and he'd taken pleasure in destroying every last one of her fucking unicorn statues in revenge, though being dust she probably wasn't in a position to care -- because toothless music was better than no music, but was that lost to him, too? Fuck fuck fuck, was he--

Buffy slapped him on the chest to get his attention, and he heard that all right, the smack of flesh on flesh echoing off stone, and she tried to say something else, and he tried to ask her what the hell was going on, and then when that didn’t come out he switched to a stream of profanity, but nothing, not a squeak, and he shoved away the covers and rushed over to the little trunk where he’d secreted his notebooks and personal items, pulling out a blank one and a pencil.

_WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON?_ he wrote in the notebook. He was rubbish at lip reading anyhow.

Buffy snatched the pencil away from him, scribbling in her loopy cursive. _We’re not deaf. We just have no voices. Any ideas?_

He didn’t bother writing anything in reply, just gave her a sardonic look to note that if he’d had any bloody ideas he’d have bloody well said so instead of asking her, and from the way she rolled her eyes he could tell she’d heard him loud and clear, profanity included.

She scribbled again. _Something’s wrong. We have to go see Giles. He has books. _Spike raised his eyebrows, indicating the full bookshelf that had been added to the crypt. _Research books, you dope! _she added.

He nodded, rolling to his feet and heading to the wardrobe to fetch clothes; she joined him, rummaging in her drawers for trousers and a shirt. They dressed quickly, side by side, and as he slung his duster on, she caught him by the elbow, holding up the Gem of Amara.

He held his hand out, and she slid the ring on his finger with the usual hushed reverence for the moment. The daily declaration of trust.

And then she lifted her gaze to his, and he didn’t need to be a lip reader to know what she said.

_I love you._

He smiled, feeling light and humbled and chuffed and… happy. He was happy.

_I love you too, _he said, and if his voice had been working he knew it would have been trembling with emotion, because it always was.

He kissed her hard and grinned, and she matched him tooth for tooth. Whatever it was that was wreaking havoc in Sunnydale this particular Tuesday, Buffy would be more than a match for it. She’d brought him to_ his_ knees, hadn’t she? And he was one hell of a Big Bad. The baddest. Whoever had stolen their voices, whatever they were planning, they didn’t stand a chance against her. Especially not when he was by her side.

And she reached out to him, and he took her soft, deadly hand in his, and together they ran out into the sunlight.

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Dread Poet Spike quotes another Pablo Neruda work, this time “Body of a woman, white hills, white thighs” as translated by Robert Bly - there are other translations but I liked this one best. Found here: https://poets.org/poem/body-woman-white-hills-white-thighs --thanks to EllieRose101 for the suggestion!
> 
> Thank you again to my betas, Sigyn, EllieRose101, and SzmattyCat. Extra thanks to SzmattyCat, who also made me a gorgeous banner that I have not had energy to add for AO3 but you can see it on Elysian Fields. (Notice Dru in there? Hmm? :D) And thank you to all of you lovely readers who commented, wailed, gnashed teeth, and otherwise made all my plotting and agonizing and cackling and smuttery worthwhile.


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